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libidomechanica · 2 months

Text

Untitled Composition # 11318

A ballad sequence

Love gives all its Difficulties? Sits on my love. Meet the mountains, on that can a young philosopher; perchance because

a sugred kisse in sport I suckt while you do deceive of thy praise, the byting frost nipt his sturdy stroke, and

Geraldine! By my mother near? Into the hall, that cold, this crooked, that wont to do? Bright staves of motion like a broken

worlding wail’d, and even Despair was power as real as thine height of all they who lives on the wild team which love

thee, hence remove, least thou the water white and blond meadow- sweet among and darting swallows anchored in you, two clear

their steeds with heat: o Bacchus, cool thy rays! Thine own bright insinuations that my old love had return with her sweet

deaths are sweetest subiect wert, borne in the level of your eyes already, known them all—arms that leave them teach you bout

the blossomes fayre, and bosom beating where is no more, to cast it in the verge of striking, poised to devour&

feed on skin, on all. Some life of life, and Sleep must lie down to the pond’s edge where and the Sprite goes by the unconscious

drives us to master the child of state in compasse rownd. Music of Pan from thy pure brows, and fro between you and

I. But all within the hollow voice a whisper often crost with the intent to be lost i’ th’ funeral

fire. It tore the roses, and a thousand fragrance irrefragably, and could not cut him up, it could not tell. Yearn,

as is most meet for all. Take this Sea, whose each cup’s worth an Indian commonwealth. Where I knelt watching and going,

of drinking and pursuing the light of Heaven makes all things, the flowers, too, unto the stain of tears, fits, flirtations,

airs; ’gainst someone’s garage I fell on city sidewalks in California we went to sea in a beautiful

lemon mistake. Bout the milken way, thy fingers wiped the wind of his friend would have laid an army in battle

array had marched out. The Baron said—His daughters, to gather flocked at! She cannot touch your companions be, those sacred

sister Lilia woke with self-substantial fuel, making a hundred miles That to your arms for peace.

‘Thy words of high sentences, the sweet self too cruel. Where and the youthful Lord of Tryermaine! ” You have come into yon farther off from me now. A moment’s space, stood with somewhat lower

rate. Hands on my love, what a beautiful Pussy you are a glass of wine, begun to unwind, which so sweete is, see how it the winds and the yews of home—as many little,

been flicker, and heaped snowe burdned him so sore, that long its happy, country-folk acquaintance made by barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. I crave the posts of twilight, you

see,—with such perplexity of mind, when who but a fool would have been a strange, wild, vain. And was gold. Yet I am now with the smell of itself, a broken and friend than he

to foolishly, like me, and restore me to the lounged goddess when she spake, her loosen’d manes, and gave such welcome as a flint, cheat and be my love, and hery with hymnes

thy lasses gloue. Which the death rattle, me of the sea’s red vintage melts the summer weeping, in tears the last age should I presume? A belt of straw and ivy-claspt, of finest

Gothic times are fled from greeuance. And passively take the prime of day break from the grief of my hair were starres, thy breast doth swell; no, child, its perfections of our June—shall they’ve taught

much care, her face rose-red with blossomed anew,—yon looking at the western sky. By Saul Bellow When I do appeach thee accloieth, my Sinnamon smell too much annoieth. While to

the divine who hath rescued thee flee. Begin with a heart of star by him could steer and pure so now and now in happier dead. And once about who can love each other; to

mutter and mock a broken the end. And both blue eyes with forced to fall, the night is our only consolate, the byting frost nipt his stalke dead, the watrie wette weighed downe hardly rise

unhelpt of hand; I bow down to love that look, those babies in your waken’d hate; since she, disdain to Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine. His pity was as green as grain in the wastes

of time and from the tips of your body takes on the dimensions of our love I did allow; but out, alack! They rode furiously, carved stones of the sunset flames? Sores she

holds her head. Off, woman, who’s to Love as it always finds, and names, and thou art broken statue propt against my kisses once! Man with knobs and wires a crafty loving followed:

and the old tree. Close by the hill, and tears she sheds— large tears the rose, and quills today as I must first your bodies formed were, and with love false or true, but once I knew not what of

malice, and so rare a wit, require at least by me be maintained: but what might for me. But shall break. For he was dead as any nail in town; for, though we cannot tell—I

thoughts no longer dreamed. That smile unsearchable repose, or one hip quiver with what other eyes full of ruth for the night-birds all that holds hushed willows anchored in you, and looked

at the center. And snaky Persius, these, had any share, let blood and felt my blood glow with her sweet poison behind his crimson’d all thy presence-room. And but your good survivor

with apparel me relieve, except thou pype of Phyllis prayse: but Phyllis prayse: but Phyllis prayse: but Phyllis prayse: but Phyllis is my breache: my hartblood is welnigh frorne I

feele my breast: look into your Faith he may hold me not formost placed, and Marian’s nose looks fair, but ambergris and gums. And their gates with a hissing star through her breast, and life

in its own skin. Should that harvest of the light wind, which not a soul can choose not to And caught up, so mastered by the pangs of her dear! But the floor whereon the green holly.

Paused awhile, and she in the garden, all the summer’s green all girded up in a five pound note. By a whisper’d: no

longer mix with their Institute of which hides the day I met wi’ an auld man.—Of Whom? And indeed there and how a

call celestial face, and sable curls all silver’d o’er with him, and see love’s chorus led by the fire in winter. Can

vie with the dove to take a nap in a cool cell where the Bong-tree grows and their open window, should have been a pair

of ragged rontes all shiver and she in the Hand of Sorrow! To dally with light; and pleasures may thee shepheard,

tel it not wise if I fled from our shore, resting the whirling pillars and lips and o’er her eyes already, known them

all—the eyes and light. Yet the dark. And as you will be, yet, Thyrsis of his tongue: to Linus, then to thy sweet you sing!

To other desires I can trace, secret joys and secret oar and petalled word to the lovely Pussy! Whether

woman but that didn’t matters it? And Christabel: all our household are at a mortal in the kitchen two times

I heat the butter for thee, and Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children lisp the Rights of Kings; while quacks of State

must each place we die. And, if she knew all. Corner, of a youth who loves me and be cherished bee throughly rooted, and

Love is no more, to cast it in the middle of these harms, that am debarr’d the benefits forgot: though thou so

faire appeare in beauties do themselves forsake and for no other, she prayed the moon, the moon. If men procured thee trouble

behind her form withdrew the blinds. Why wilt thou ever scare me with pity oft will tell to these nine Worthies all

faire mindes resort. Nor cheek once more blushed bright Titans shining here; that if so timid air is firm under his eyes

a boat sliding across her cheek or tongue and fears, those of my own life, who by turns had flung a shadow roaming like

a snowgirl, a butter for the holly! And heavy ignorance aloft to fly have added feather. In arias

of death. Laughed and Lilia with those dancing chips, o’er whom thy fingers, when he di’d opprest, there shall you find him

in certain lights, and daws, perfect note. I do any wish impart, where an army in battle array had marched out.

The desperate Lover can die! I love) I shan’t have lied. At Christabel! How could I see save the staggering girl, her thighs caressed by the dark his sorrows sit and weep. Amid the jaggèd shadow, while I debated what it is she

now? In signature of the lights in one-night cheap hotels and sawdust tavern at the woods decay, the snow still a Boy, and oft a wanton Nimph for him—he asks no more to heare nouells of air three sinful sextons’ ghosts are pent, who all

give back, and cut a smoothe, his pricked eares? Your haire with art sometimes on her silken vestments white, those of my ioy, faire triumphant splendor on my brow; but out, alack! My heart again. The ever-silent spaces of the sea is cruel.

Oh, do not know: draw in your horses’ heels, and bring youth is found. I’ll bring thee to say just what flinty savage than the dear and a day, to the leaues they were. You up the hallowed to hold the one red leaf, the lashes bright, and my galage

growne fast to my heele: but little by little worth. Mutual blood, transpire more sweete is, see how it the learned round, and drew in her vineyard— yes! She shrunk and shame! But her sire, Sir Leoline so pale, murmuring how she is

gone, the quiet limit of their loss is no disaster. Such closets to see? A feast shone, silver-set; about it lay the guests, and the distant refrain because your mouth in waves, round else unlighted match, and all her heart was cleft of

sky where nothing, for, heart, the joy of my blossomes rownd. The sky holds the urge to hear how her voice was faint and sweet: have pity on my skin, his blude it is to them; and by their virtues only gods should say: That is not this. Singing

each to each. If you ain’t watched the blue sky bends over all! The dove’s its head it crouched; and what Grace in your eyes, strange song I heard the shrill-edged shriek of a mother near? Let this Fair One, when frae her thought all worldly strife. It could not be, so

strictly over utmost him so hugely stood my father, to bed you safe and friends in your horses are fleet, ye must ride, What sees she that will not saue, murder works in the wind; stranger to meet and find out why he died, might was fled! And

to that to your arms for a night long we have struck despairer, wherefore, while I place your voice when it singeth, angels to acquaintance made by barn in threshing-time, by new- built rick. Angels to acquaintance made by barn in threshing-

time, by new-built rick. Truth doth glorify the orange ball that is lent to loue, wyll be lost their sleep, as I gain the cellar. At his mother’s train divine and purer or more subtle soul than Moonlight, moonlight, moonlight?

They steal their ghostly roots and shook the key that frown aside, and so, good bye, allegiance! Made he the pledge, he’d think that

tree although thy breast: her silken robe of white, that of a weede he was bom old. Of finest wool, which the deaf cold

elements; but think thou no form of thy sight; mine eye and heart to fear, to doubt a mind, through the pane, the quickly shall unload

his Heart to me, and time for me may moue you. Muzzle on the parson’s saw, and birds sit brooding. To Linus, then

to the porcelain, among weeds, or flowers, and keep them where is no more: the shape of sleep becomes you: and your mother

will; she wounds wyde: vntimely my flowres, to peinct thir girlonds with her venturous climbings and Lovers are not

how they passed that strange, strange flames of the seats a place with craft to cloke. And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks, when awful Beauty

granted. If men procured thee trouble meant, that am debarr’d the sprinkled feet upon the sweet odours, mirrhe, gum,

aloes, frankincense, as man’s ingratitude; thy tooth is not what I meant at all, and, last, she sat down by her heaving

breasts would encline. A shadow across the sallow sands, and when she viewed, a vision blest, which too deep into the

child of his own sweet Christabel, when she told her face rose- red with seaweed red and white and bare but in the husband’s

shape in mind of thy rustic flute kept not formost placed, as did the book and had told all; but did refrain. What matter.

Dropping something doubting of her speech, faine would have faith is meant thee. And should stand and to be praised of ages yet to

rue my smart, did find their ghostly roots and should I begin? Like hangovers, and take two steeds with a blast of its own.

His sheep, his hand was whole, as if it were Herself and his soul love is this but not today: you, incommensurate,

therefore, deare, this seal of my sorrow; from the Heav’ns so often flye. And pass our long walks were still. Which is—o sorrow

and shake the priestes crewe, and oft too, by the terrace, made a hundred friend by more than all While Pan and fair Syrinx

in triumphant splendor on my braunches broke, whose bodie is sere, whose bodie is sere, whose small wind and drain’d. Love all

in vaine, that the sweet of bitter sky, do love you now until I grasp the Skirt of Living Presence. The field, and

distorted therewithal: be she likewise one of those eyes you praised of ages yet to be. As Egypt’s pearl dissolved

in rosy wine and Cleopatra— night drinks all—tis done, love, lay thine hand in hand withal she rather Lambes bene

as broade, as Rainebowe bent, his dewelap as lythe, as lasse of Kent. Fast in the lovely to-night’s blue candle.

Him and then removed his soul love is the girl, who by turns had flung a shadow white and bright hair I dream of greater

love at lower rate. In a groue most rich of shade, where will he send forth with a frown, she cannot tell. And release a

smile, to have squeezed the universe’s largest engagement ring, it twirls and sawdust restaurants with trappings proud, and the

hill, our Scholar travels yet the lovely lady’s prison. And suddenly, as one that are endless like them. Proof? Full

of wrinckles and child, a lesson new you were mine You are looking-glass gleamed at the old oak tree? Just what I meant, at

all. Bring me alone. A lady so richly clad as she— beautiful Pussy you are like me, and oft he lets thee

thus throug my beaten hyde, all as I were the trampled some beneath her curls. A sudden leap, and to that braine emperished,

and nothing gainst Time’s scythe to see his neare ouerthrow. He quickly shall no more, who, distant light is ours to wreathed

the Proctor’s dogs; and one discussed his tutor, rough to common men, but home him hasted with his colour fix’d; beauty

no pencil, beauty passeth, saue thy mind, while to my mind, to differ a disease of same, counting no old thing

old, thou mine, I thine, like a broken statue propt against the promptings of Peace? That I wear like a lady of a

fancy. Sits on my love. A simple joy the couch’s perfume from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain’d. For love

of heauenly Grace want pitty? Amid the jaggèd shadow white ashes all my life, pleaseth you ponder your skin, my household

of privilege. My father moved to think I’m different now, the city towers are strewn— so have I seen flatter

the mountain-tops, in clouds, with pain and rage, his cheeks so shallow too, as to show her tongue be dumb? And laid her soiled gloves

by, untied her hat and let the koi kiss his palm, like as many girls—sick for the jars of heaven so high? Him an’

wrack him, until I heartbreak him and thy fire; i’me weary of time. The patiently I untangle her wrists like knots.

If thou hast sorrows sit and weep. Never our lips, which should hear the entrance, a patch of tall grass. Why wilt thou gild’st thou

this woman, off! And soon thy foot resumed its wandering mother! What! Hair I dreamt I bore his chilly, but not dark.

And on her will; she wounds in the bright-eyed Eulalie upturns her man on his face, and left it swinging or a sail flung into his Lord, stirring vp sterne strife: o my liege Lord, the Gipsy-Scholar travels after shall be able to give

an incorruption unto me. How well her puir Jenny for siller an’ lan’! Wise Salomon in all his hospitality to the lady passed her father’s dream his flesh was flesh his blood was blood: no hungry man but wished his fires,

now let us smother our lips, our hand like a blood clot. Memory has powerless to destroys it. Like hangovers, and yon bonie castle good which stands hugely politic, cautious, and were not, fast.—Unfolded floating flower. Noon,

then mine, the Baron forgot his age, his cheeks they quivered, his eyes may grow, if not quite forgot, and forever disowns thee, her Willy. How they leapt slantwise through depths of height this motion well or ill, all but the scatter’d farms the

lights of Kings, in low prostration, most humble and I worried you like an oyster that cloisters a spoil of pearls, shy, in the moon-faced darling one wish would go, piping a ditty sad for Bion’s fate; and cross into your goodnes the sky.

My pipe is lost, vnkindnesse kils delight; yet though shadow-like and Winter accord full nie, this coyness, Lady, were not

soft like the sea and there will bring disaster. And under then if he his lesson misse, when they: alas that in the

bridegroom wished his fires, and ocean rivers, to gather flowres forced to fall, the night, curled once again. Hand and look too,

into the other a locket filled with cold, and thou art not seene this truth in beautie’s wonne: that is worse, makes me, most

guiltlesse, torments, when there were many Lilias in the verge of striking, poised to devour& feed on skin, on all.

When the steep floor flung from a scheme that moaneth bleak? With weeping, I like to a lily withered; next look thou like a nexus breaking the flow of—was it musk from hidden brookside

gleam primrose-banks, and trust in Heaven, nancy, Nancy; then all alone stands and threaten; ah, my sute granted. And I beseech your hands … whose counted smiles, little throat in a

clench of callous and nail—sit on their tongue into the other than thou can’st see by glim’ring of all, and then removed his mates; but yet, like prayers divine, she nothing! And he’s

dozin, his touch. With weeping, I like to watch TV shows about supernovas, and could descry neath the eyes of the golden chalice, drank. Grins on a pile of children

lisp the Rights of Man; amid this might, nought aske I, but since I loue you, time and place for me, and sable curls all silver-white and cuckoo- buds of yellow hair displaced, be

both we suffering you caused of wrong, and cruel kind, a heartfelt prayer for the cove with the eyes more bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humbly own—’tis decorum. And one said smiling bride.

And spread, o’er all, her yellow bird hung over her in tune, he marked her through mist and cloud that merry peal from Borodale.

Conform the pipes of lonely tree against a lover’s affirmation If you ain’t sure there is Aunt Elizabeth

and sister Lilia. And arts with oyster-shells: streets thee thither flowing knees; your breath aloud, like one that

white fish on the way with all care, and what’s my drift? Then Christabel, How camest thou growest beauties in spring did

say, i’ll not wear your addresses, and could to-night, yet, happy in being together though I have reached her chamber

carved stones of Time; and once that shuddered, she unbound the cincture of these delight to be preferr’d in Beauty won me,

but what might I gain a boon of their sweet debt of life—each night to fluttering, and the full; and that dost not bite so

nigh and, stooping, made my heart; for in thy voice and juicy. Noon, then mine, then break it must, my lassie o’ my heart’s part:

as thus; mine eye and hearkens not! And with your dog, fondle your strife, nor longer hover over them and down to the

people: thither half the neighbouring borough with rage; he swore they should grieue me. And from the threshold of privilege.

The time is come. Lo! Your eyes, strange song I heard Apollo sing, which comfort but of the city’s edge. In wassail; often,

like a tedious argument of insidious intent to be preferr’d in Beauty, farre before her father’s

hall. Which made him limbs: said he, Let others grow; and nothing so mock-solemn, that I should speak, or English fields, woods

or steepy mountains haste along, she nothing; but thine my heart and not forth: here is the time, and the little, been

flickering bed. Had, alas, the while, but let’s not always finds, and names, and made it bright, bitter all utterly defy.

Sweet of bitter bark and burning wine, and yet be jealous of the sea’s red vintage melts the sunset flames?—But neither heat, nor for shade did lye, doth lowre, nay chide, nay threat for only the ledger lives, and blinded of those evil days that

be now posting on thy silver lamp burns dead and Foot, remembered not. Give me leave and all things be so witty, shall a heauenly Grace want pitty? Here was seene him nere. But her, by thee blushing stand! Almost blue How oft, when the lamp, and

many more such a louely light, to make him seem long hence as he spake; her spell awakens the lassie o’ my heart doth wake, then live with might and looked up at her eyes would rejoice keen as midsummer pomps come on me unaware, and

smile of warme fine-odour’d snow, dead weeds and rue, and yet this Fair One but her with hellish anguish, dare not forth: here is proof that look askance with forced unconscious sympathy full before the elm-tree bright beneath, and Lilia with the

glowing bars, murmur, a little sorrow and shawl, and tell them: o brilliant kids, frisk with your dog, fondle your souls would yearn to meet thee on the sward she tapt her tiny silken- sandaled foot: that’s your love. Putting his sickle to the

cornice-wreath blossom of her husband, cease your strife, nor longer we. Come swifter that sweet city with hellish anguish, ioylesse, hopeless, yet sweet, so ripe a judgment, and full of sleep, beauty charmingly sweet you sing! This chill, the Baron’s

heart, the joy of the Hall, dropt to her feet, and full of ruth for there he hung till he was sitting behind his crimson’d all thy presence-room. Lovers, forget the suffer the sunsets and beautiful blush, and time yet for a flightless bird,

brooding in my sleep I saw the same, my herald shall be able to give a dole of bread, a purse, a heart of the natural nursing size. Yea, she doth cast, where and they rode; they betted; made a sudden thought of thee hast lost both lopp and

topp, als my budding branch thou wouldest thou lay that nimble leap to kiss the tender heir might beseem so bright lady, surpassingly fair; and a voice less loud, through rain and a great white, those scarlet Iudges, thretning bloudie paine. Your eyes, in

the lady Christabel! No second leg, and thy tears are on my cheek. His heart was cleft with pain and insult to his dying day! And which obscure, but cannot tell, o’er-mastered by the light of strength, thy golden sea, whose diapason knells

on scrolls of sure and good: I found a thing which glories, crowned with music so sweet, like the mowers, who, as the bedside mirrored in you, two clear raindrops in your heart forever, ever more? That Harp untun’d by Time’s all-severing wave?

Half child half woman as she were! Stay that frown aside, and smile of warm sea-scented beach; three fields lived on air that crossed

the Irthing flood, my merry bard! Were her lips ill hung or set, and often crost with thy tears are on my cheek begins

to redden thro’ the glowing bars, murmur, a little hour! When you come upon the gilded tomb, and to the rest, and

little lap-dog breed, who can be sweet Attar to the grove where an army down. In fiery ringlets from the grief

at the cold to scorn, and crownes you will; heroic if you dare thing, then my dreams that … strange heart felt like a man’s, and

I will drink to Ovid, and so rare a wit, require at least an age in one merciless white blade—the bay

estuaries fleck the harte. A year; nor with a heart of Christabel And who art thou? Pegs; and, as his frantic looks shew

him truly Bacchanalian-like besmear’d with furiously, carved with mist engarlanded, the death of some Old Story?

Has might sweetly bleed? Then nightly make grief’s strength and all because a sugred kisse in sport I suckt while you’re think of

your ears, even always the light. Then comes to fill it when thou, whom partiall heauens conspird in one long yellow half-moon

large and lovelier than thou can’st see by glim’ring of all, and from heat did canopy the herbs on which it surpassingly

fair; and a voice sounds as of a castle good which should not say, This is my home. Time and plaster are sold to

the center of your eyes,—in this Oake to the startled little clock, and part were drowned within the world is of a piece.

This singing is a kind of thine. And would it have been worth while if one, settling across the stars above, and lay down

in her arms across her chest, and in the very best should speak, or English air that lonely tree a wealthy issue

bears of fragrant posies, a cap of flowers fresh growing dewy-warm with kisses balmier than this my love. In a

world with shiny promised then to be Lords of fierce disdaineth; suns of the river’s path. Yet Geraldine, had deemed her

sure a thing divine: such sorrow and shaking a famine where thou art a Theefe, A theefe! She turned at once is fled, was

never stirr’d by a shuffled step, by a dead weight and bare! A little Booke; yet some of the rich. Evening, lingered upon

the wall, the vision through pain, and tell the embosom’d grief, however vain, to sullen wind wagge their supremest

kiss, or else transfuse thy breath be rude. Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields, here at Christabel! Still fervid

covenant, Belle Isle, white shoulder bore her head, which is worst to vex the lake a little heardgroomes, keeping his full-crown’d

bowls of burning wish to hasten down toward the sky. The cloud apart; there cams’t thou in him dost lie—a closet never

watched your mother&father—how they fused their wills and strength to help the desperate Lover can die! Where a boy tugs at

his glance to shining; for thou dost love, and with white; when lo! My music, or broadcast live on the part to be acted.

He asked with music so sweet, like to thee: but stay, I see a text that this fair and unkind; no less than a wonder

and full of wrinckles and forms of men! Depreciates the spoyle is euill, far worse of constant louers. In the topmost

twig that looks on Ilsley Downs, the Vale, the thing is mocked at noon his tender too and pretty at each wild word to feel!

Was heard, and her voices dying day! Every friend would haue made to suit the placed me underneath them glows, and nothing

saw, but his enemie had kindled such coles of displeasure proue. And like a virgin full of ruth for the goodman on

the hill. Too, into the blue flame played the phone. And in his eyes made of. Before the elm-tops down from her proffered

immeasurable is proudly and by octobering flame beckoned as earth the lamp will trim. But for the hours, and door

succeeds door; I try the freshest hew, attended bee, presents, fast food. Where icy and briers! As if she moved more ways

than one: the shape of sleep, lest the sky with several parts could change their sex, and flesh be mud and mire, scheming

imagine, passionate shrieked and wrung it. Of something that bosom cold, all for the silent dead, still I’ll try to make a

buttercup under a chin, the brain that chair like a makeless wife; the world’s increase! When she rose, and willd my Muse!

Prayed the multitude, a thousand to the ground: there yet in bed I lie. And warm starfish. Speculation had fail’d, and

even children’s eyes they will say many a mysteree, and of those evil days that be now posting on through wind and

drain’d. Its mysteries; nor shall we need to fetch from our pretious oyle, and arts with oyster- shells: streets thee their state and

situation I wonder’d what might and beauties do themselves cannot reach thee nothing; but their way to the wrong. No,

vain, alas! All her feet doth bare, and tell her puir Jenny for siller an’ lan’! Meadows sits eternal Footman hold

your voice in a little hour! Why, then, ’ said thou wert most sweetheart of thee, thou gently tooke, that heard him with a smile; then

turned round cheeks, that all things when Pity pleads for Sin. We sought, though I have seen the steep floor flung from his own mouth. Upon

that lamp you can, gifts will get ye, or the many mountains haste along, she nothing so mock- solemn, that I leave my

second health in wine, who met the embrace, prolonging it with Time and friendship is feigning, most loving eye, and now,

like amorous birds of prey, rather took than got a fall; the wanton musicke made, maie, then before the day I met

wi’ an auld man? Yet—gentle Eulalie’s most humbly wealth to thee: but stay, I see a text that this faded Oake, whose

influence is this but not today: you, incommensurate, therefore, while I place your voice back into the other.

A book decorates a bed. Have known the untill’d soil. And I beseech your courtesy fine she turned wildly glittered

here and the flying terms, but move as rich as Emperor- moths, or Ralph who shines so in the lady by her head,

each shrunk in hideous night; sleep, sleep, lest the steele had pierced his pith, tho downe to the sight to owe, insolvent every

noon! Where worthy Ladies I will not love you I understand! While another’s shirt for a flightless bird, brooding. This

life is thorny; and you slept with thy sweet fingers, asleep … tired … or it malingers, asleep … tired … or it

malingers, stretched maid to flee. Tender inward of the sweet no more to heare of warm sea-scented beach; three fields of refuse

thee. Much more friendly the book and had my fingers crumble and came to their fates woke dreamers to the treasury, as

I in it recite by name I will make thee see though I’ve no fear! The Type of Theirs—their Wrath and smutty jest, the hall,

that is not in pain. Over thighs, thick and fast upon his head into her lap. If men procured thee from the tips of

youth did he make, and said in courtly accents fine, sweet maid, Lord Roland call, thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall! Your

pretious oyle, and brouzed, and condemn all such as are not in the air, but ambergris and gums. All triumphant

splendor on my brow; but their throat and all the rest; an age at least to every pore with grey; I feel her features we

desire speaks out. Where all we taste as bright! Of love and Destiny both arrived at: there vigor barely contained,

flaming torrid climes, or haply lies beneath the old tree. And bite the bays. And snaky Persius, these, a lady, one

that prayed. Yet some of louers; see now those feathers to the crunch, can live for a thousands now such women, but convention

beats light comer, he is fled, and blue! Exclaim receive the seal’s wide spindrift gaze toward the wind: and her voice was faint and

sweet, did thus pursue her answer to tell! Come live with anemonies in flower till May, know him a wanderer

still; the fort of the light of thee, I thought once how Theocritus had sung of the huge oak If you ain’t had thy will!

Great poets and greefe adawed, that an acre hath power? Me, wha wad soon dry the terrace, made a sudden leap,

and tower and Agamemnon dead. To free the house from the grief of my hart, I do any wish impart, where he

is death, desire, that is not eased by night, curled once a bowl of apples stopped me dead. Heaven shall rescue me, I

have sinn’d! And Sleep must lie down in air, their nipples as uninvolved as warm stove-window light. Where are the light, hand in

hand sheltered in a corner, of a youth who loves her, must die! Meet. It as it well? There will be wandering with golden

age—why not? Some found her by the lights of Cupids skies, whose godly labours doe avoyd the baite of worldly strife.

Which from our pretty sake but what prodigious mowing we did make! Brake with seaweed red and brown till human voices dying with the mound of her breasts I drew wine. About the

aid of joy. No later light laid pausefully upon life’s morning sunne laughed; a rosebud set with blood-red heath, the restroom I pretend they are very married ear! In these

effects, to proue; now be still, yet still of me beloued, you see what I mean! My auld auntie Katie upon my eye! And when I spake words did say, that I have seen my heart’s

endeavour to follow you up the glass, goblet, golden dreams all yesternight oft meet in glen that’s the lassie o’ my heart’s part: as thus; mine eye’s due is thy cheek, and o’er her right

arm fell again; and folly’s all the lamp will trim. And weariness: stretched maid to flee. At Christabel, when she told her face, oh call it loving you: home is nowhere, there such a

fixèd fancy set, on those which least deserve, that that’s the lady Geraldine: five warrior from his ivied nook glow like a nest from an abandoned field. Is the night wi’ a crazy

auld man. Him great harmes had taught me Turn, and Stand; she was most vsen Ambitious folke: his colowred crime with craft to cloke. Great poets and beautie’s wonne: by whose perfit colours

meete to clothe a mayden Queene. Dwarf heart as I heare to call, whereto aye wonned to repayre the shepheard, the day wears, and much I praised if all be well! Sing me a new pan.

Light gatherer. That he at last by Time—the Harp that clings to your hands … whose counted smile of warm sea-scented beach; three fields! Hindering tongues restrain a sudden loss of quiet!

It is impossible, but on the news rarely makes the right decisions and death. My poor heart, the joys of night than their ghostly roots and should have been worth it, after the tear-

drop that capacious room into the staring owl, And this’ he said was Hugh’s at Ascalon: a good knight; and she believe you are my love, what euer that August you were mine You

are the light. Thou art not Thou the Wisdom oft has sought is shining; for thou dost but mend the stove late of a winter was in her vineyard— yes! ’Ve been worth it, after the

time, and something as necessary wrinkles place, strawberries. Will he send forth with many a summer’s breathing-space. Seven-headed monsters only made to suit the place and

the sweeter than half-opening buds of April, and clasped his mouth at this to something it should be a little door she opened one, then I, my thought; then grew my tongue was tied

against the west unflushes, the mastiff bitch? So lowde: which may not haply say truth needs not June for beauty, Lady dear! My sight to fluttering retreats of restless nights in

one-night cheap hotels and sawdust tavern at the lady fell, and condemn all such as are not in the ruffian’s heart, that hope is lost, my sight to owe, insolvent every noon!

Which erst from yours. So oft have I seen flatter I the swart-complexion’d night, and looked out, each day say o’er the water dewe. You said the air to move away the ringing up; no

more sound Sweetness to them; and by thy beautiful pea green borders, love with a stake in his old age; dishonoured thus it chanced, as I mused it in his slow-chapt power.

Sound: whereat the bed, echoing inside my heart, glimmer, and it seemed as lost—her stately Virgil, witty Ovid, by whom fair Corinna sits, and gleaming hair, collarless, fenced-in skin that shadowy in the summer as befits

the tiny swell of our wishes— did we have not broke my Bond, nor lies beneath the mild canopy the herbs on which thee accloieth, my Sinnamon smell too much; I lived on. And when I looked him in those head cushions, slow motion well or

ill, all but the light, and speech did follow, each in turn; and so we forged a sevenfold story. Tried to keep dropping sometimes, I wish I were some might mean. These brambles pale with me sitting all bright, and life in its own; and lusting for

goodnes the sky and harbor shoulders in a rosy silk, that made the old—born cycle. Sing me a thrush, bone. Alas! On my flickering and is now about gold? Yet a Book of Love and changed … There’s nothing but to peep at us.

Because his tongue: to Linus, then to Pindar; and the while, half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings whose circles, and

me thou learne to caroll of Loue, and find th’ effect, for I do burn in loue and wonder. House; without all wind

and drivers in a bower kept, as Danae in a tower: but yet love, who subtile is, crept to that, and snicker,

and thy attention summon, ah! And all eares worse than deaf that heretic, which hung in a murky old niche in

the sky like horses are fled; now, well-bred men—and you should, if you dare thing, then my dream methought, though I’ve no fear! And

in its own; and lusting for all loue, all faith in a tradesman’s ware or his word? The woods. To chase fame: I now the

arms and arms were brown like small bushes vsed to shatter’d farms the maiden wise casting down beside you and me never

fear. With all triumphant splendor on my braunches sere. You are looking-glass gleamed at the Deity swore: but, if you

with eternal Footman hold you close so close … it look like a broken the heart a-keeping? And speech was such a fixèd

fancy set, on those that was long ago—that time—so just lie under then if he his lesson misse, when lofty trees

I see barren of leaves which inward love of the wight most wise by Phoebus doom, with sparkling stars, in their graves and

knows the secret smiles, O let me share; and men and marr’d and wasted with cold bene annoied. Over knees like saucers,

over calves, polished as leather, down to the rivers seem! ’Re gathered shake dew on the pools that stand in your waken’d

hate; since she, disdain and insult to his breast that evil hour hath flown, many a mysteree, and thus the lofty lady

spake—all they who lives on the beauteous stem. That fill wither into ten black swollen gates that smile unsearchable

reply whose accent no farewell can know. Very married, one gives all its reasons as if the screech itself is dawn.

Ledger lives, and many more subtle cargoes lie. ’ And in hir hand that my poor breast: her silken robe of white, that so

it seemed her girded vests grew tight beneath them glows, and people find any rest. To praise, once crush’d, less quick to spring:

faithful lover so. Sure I have said! So fair, so you love me little hour! Some life of men depart; but Thyrsis then.

Thy faire forehead gaze; two hundred friendless, my burden I bear, and open, jasmine-muffled lattices, and beate vpon

the gilded ball danced when she was praying alwaies greene, a goodly Oake sometimes, I wonder by Natures law, rebell

by Natures law, rebell runaway, to lord and lady friends, and made many wounds in Jesu’s side he would proclaim

it far and wished-for years, the sweet stars, innumerable, leapt everywhere; almost every perfect love and pity.

Everyone else forgetting close. That is lent to loue, wyll be lost their way to thee: I lay then to heare nouells of his deuise: they wont in stormes, his toppe was bald,&wasted me, and strike,

if he seav’n times bright! He could, were it but with his cheating the carver’s brain, for he could not say: for which done, she rose, and so nor will not cry also although shadow-like and

Winter gan to approche, the bridegroom came forth into the streetlight, that lives and aspire. Come, to chase fame: I now the arms and hanging Laurel, alwaies greene, a goodly Oake sometime

had it bene, with arms more strong when I spake words Sir Leoline. Sheltered in shade, under a chin, the wide house through pain, and tear our pleasures, living brother: they parted—ne’er

to me: forsaken and restore me to the husband did its worth it, after the surf bright striped urchins flay each other like my Mama under your bodies to caressed by

the dove’s its head it crouched; and we will say, that I’m enlightened up my heaven, no second morn has ever shone for me, and shadow, while I do speake to the hearer’s grace when

Dorian shepherds sang to a married men; for thus sings he, she shut the cold out and the while, to have bitten off the TV because the new world know about gold?

Lives there some great wings beating each to each. And nodding by the hour that I can; he’s peevish an’ jealous of the cube and squirm newly as from unburied which floats up from the

deaf cold elements; but think thou no form of thy beauty’s waste hath in the realme of Loue, and from thy dear love were budding branch thou wert here! I try the fresh flowretts bene defast.

Sad shall be thy amends for thy yoke, arise, and night determines here, at any hour; now seldom sleepeth well. As if she knew she could find his chosen Love, than Phoebus,

if he seav’n times bright, dreaming spires, she needs no colour, with him. Wise Salomon in all his numerous array and takes a lady’s eyes would wander each to each. And crowing

cock, how drowsily it crew. Which can lock vp a treasury, as I in it recite. Remember: falling on to passe: graunt, O me: what am I saying? Now let us

be married! With music so sweete Nightingale singing each morning, the treasure. Searing the margents, while perpetual day so double Praise, and now, like a green boat, they

took it away, and were many Lilias in the Celebration of it. Man comes and the violet past prime, and I beseech your courtesy fine she turned to me with stern

regard upon the gilded tomb, and towering Lucan, Horace, Juvenal, and strange was thin, delirious; hearing him out. Least thou knowest to-night, and I dived in a hoard

of tales that done, i’ll bring disaster. Lovers, forget the wall, And this’ he said. White blade—the bay estuaries fleck the tear’s in my youthful hermitess, beauteous stem. They pass

the Baron rich, hath a toothless mastiff bitch? Sweet Christabel. May pipe too sore, and cross the spell. My mistress had cut him downe his heart, my last hour I am near it: when you

read the simple pin—they will, from the silent horror of whose small birds. What! Fist, even if I put on his forehead as he shows now. Of quiet!—She that dove, that gentle minstrel

galleons of Carib fire, bequeath us to no earthly turmoil grows, and nothing else to give, they still keep tuning throng, unmoor’d our skiff when the yeare. Perhaps it is

to them; and by the hand that’s why even after the name again at dark. Be she liked it more than magic music, or broadcast live on the But feel the skull, Mr.

They blind the house through dooms of feel; his anger would changes like onyx, teeth like pearl. Ah, woe is me! All hushed and ivy- claspt, of finest wool, which thy father moved through the gainers such conduct neither heat, nor frost, nor thunderbolt, she

trampled some beneath, grave, solemn! Those scarlet white, those prophet— and here I leave my second berth, your blessed Lady that is not wind enough to common men, but honeying at the sun’s red kelson past the high wood, to whose falls melodious

birds sit brooding. My father Jonson now is plac’d, as in old days—thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis, let me alone. ’Ve lost that you give. As if it were Herself and his trees go limp a voice tells me ours is an earthquake:

they bene so well, what makes her wrath appeare in beauty charming, had ne’er a ane to peer her. When Pan and his trees of state in compasse rownd. So, in their golden pomp is come; for all the argosy of your body rocking! Let us

go, through felonous force of mine enemie. When you were mine You are a glass of wine, begun to unwind, which thee accloieth, my Sinnamon smell too much; I lived on air that crossed the smell, of the Sunne, to be the world is of a piece.

I said thou wert most sweet, maggoty minus and dumb death all we inherit, all beauty do I question make, that

it was to Fortune foeman, but gently tooke, that he seeks, makes such a woman next to me on the wing to the grove

where poets sing the firelit looking-glass gleamed at the Body looks to Dissolution. No marueile Thenot,

if thou can’st see by glim’ring of all,—what is she now? In sport I suckt while she spake; her spell awakens the last age

should show your head, and so indeed there was, indeed, in far less polish’d days, robert Burns: can feel, by its throbbings, will

die somewhat, again she sees a damsel bright, dreaming garden- trees, come with colour turned round commixed they meet, with

endlesse languish in his eyes may grow, if not quite dim, yet rather so; yet your love; take this Sea, whose diapason knells

on scrolls of sure and scatter’d limbs and a wretched forth and fern-leaves cover thy noble hearth- flower wishes to go.

Draw in your arms; then soft Catullus, I quaff up to that tomb already, known them all: have known them also, but your body lies beside him lives the other’s taut throat around, and comfort Him. In days far-off, on that dark earth, defac’d

its love, his blinded guest waiting, afire, what shall I be, so bereft, nancy, Nancy; then soft Catullus, I quaff up to that is not dashed with blossom of her pap and gums. Shut the cost of all they who live in these poinsettia meadows

of her cigarette. But truce with kings, and twelve for the crowing coal and their glorious in his place, strawberries. Tho gynne you, fond flyes, they dazzled at her eyes already, known to human shades, how rare from beneath the huge, broad-breasted,

old oak tree. Should I see save the power to their lost morning; if these delight each May morning dew, and hope, once toucht with holy water dewe. There thou art gone as well as the herd, and such skill in my Muse and under the dark confess

my kiss out-went the bounds of shamefastness: none is discreet at all; and Marian’s nose looks red and white of fallen May and chestnut-flowers bene starued with many a thing that all the rest. For love he doth call for his

devours, when sparkling star through wave on wave unto your bodies formed were, and time for all? Between us for thy face enioyeth, but now they fused their gifts. This dream it would bar, my heart, and hanging so high, on the tables every child

was sure there comes a glimpse of thy praise, once crush’d, less quick to spring: faithful from too wide a breast. More loud than you had nothing like a snowgirl, a buttercup under a strong when I was young pigs, over knees like this, now she uttered

words tho gan this to applie. Feel the pot. Wept they had been friendship, warm, sincere, friends with heat: o Bacchus, cool thy rays! I lost my mother, the moon, they danced by the ocean I could hear the boy’s palms were bare; her blue- veined feet glowed in my

one hand, and nothing keeps the same height as the ripe flame played the multitude, a thousands now such women, but convention beats them down: it is but bringing thy Pearls upon a Harp of Song? A barbell or a bowling ball, and from the

beginning has, little child, and the patron with haste; whither they mought cooled bee: but stay, I see a text that thou hast pleasures may thee move, whom Fame commends to be so tickled, they would spy it. Quick answered in the gaps between galaxies,

I can hear the cock the bellman of their love. The moment she was most vsen Ambitious brere, which proudly thrust into Thelement, and see that capacious theory. In woman’s looks, and they cricketed; they talked, above the fruit

bats scattered words tho gan this to applie. In others’ works thou dost but mend the swirl and ache from sprays of hand; I bow down to the porch with, Let us look at them; ah, when my father moved to an angel’s feet. But of the moon, the moonlight:

and often crost with thy tears, and hasten while her penniless rich palms pass superscription of His Glory the King of the golden pomp is come. In wassail; often, often, like a rolling pin, over crisp hairs, that it nor grows with

her sweet deaths are sweetest subiects wrong must descend the simple joy the couch’s perfumed tincture of the lights in one-night cheap hotels and sparkles its wall; and make her, she: but Walter hailed a score of names upon your face; but, now, a long

tale, and here’s eglantine, here’s ivy! To hye one, in whose bodie is sere, whose voice when it singeth, angels to acquaintance made by barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. A talk of college, only longed, all else? No liar

looked closely, you could move to another heart is calm, tho’ wretched on the waves, the sweetest subiect wert, borne in the beauty bright, and loved your patron; over the mountain-brink he sprang, and all I say, No! Each held a candlesworth under

your skin, my household are at a mortal work his should blush when the frosty feet, and over the open air, and flute his friend than he to foolish Brere wexe so bold, that one, which cannot wear our pleasures prove, that gentle limbs did she.

To find our tree yet crowns the hils of Kent? Are overtaken. All along the floor below. Must I too creep to the

hall, that get broken-hearted, o that’s far away. Same recure, am like for desperate weak. Thanks, for the yellow

half-moon large and lonely, smooth white stick in his mood? Never fear. Weaned my young soul transpires at every noon! True. And

called me. While their passing heaved were by pleasure time by how a body was found, his who had given grace a double

majesty. With thy sweet you sing! I said, What in that chair like a sunbeam: near his memory: but thou ask proof? Hear

every private widow well her puir Jenny for siller an’ lan’! All your roabes be purple spray on copse and bright

eyes, that now bleeds in my backpack in bed you go, flushed with blossom of her loveliness. Listen, while I turn the

lips for a shelter for the blue sky bends over all! Shot glass If you ain’t neva have the startled little sadly,

how Love fled and paced upon the bounds of shamefastness: none is discreet at all; that to your arms for a night light

where I knelt watching the shepherds lost a mate, some good survivor with apparel me relieve, except thou payèd were.

Come swifter than my harp can tell; yet might the blow, and faintly song to wander through the music from a branch. But these effects, to proue; now be still, yet we will forget the suffering

you caused of wrong, and ways be foul, then nightly sings the startled little sense of wrong, and ways? Could not help but mark, and on just proof surmise accumulate; bring me with As

you will die somewhat of wild flowers first open’d on Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, some good survivor with breath, whose witt is weak in health, and a voice tells me ours is

an earthquake: they bene so well, what makes me, most faith dost most high: see what cloudes of reproach shall dance and then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. Or, frantic, I shall try

that lone, sky-pointing tree, are not indulge in memory’s rapture in her breast sae warming, that e’en thy choice, who madest him to passe: graunt, O graunt; but speach, alas, failes

me, fearing on the knuckle. The maid, devoid of guile and sing for thy face anger inuests with slaughter: round the stars above, and we will sit upon the sand, they danced by their

verdict is determines here, away. Hollow she’s in heart was cleft of sky where nothing saw, but his enemie had kindled such coles of displeasure safe from paining—they steal their

wrigle tailes, perke as Peacock: but now when all alone stands hugely politics; they lost their wrigle tailes, perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales. I will hold you close so

close … it look like a thunders, crept away, like a patient etherized upon the bounds of shamefastness: none is discreet at all; and you will, or ere I go, she goes.

I understand! Roasted crabs hiss in their crystal Devon, winding Devon, wilt thou ever scare me with the right deeds a Tyran showeth; for thou dost but mend the smooth-slipping

weeks drop by, and learnt a stormy darte, which works on leases of short-number’d hours, but the pieties of love and childish escapes, maud the belt. The yellow fog that rubs its back

these thought and smacking of all, and pacing on the beauty I throw light. Now about gold? Belovëd, thou mine, I think that tree although hate were white: and once we crossed the moon, the

moon. Like wailful widdowes hangen their chief art in reigne dissembling hands on my love, and some of you and me, would it have been worth is found. To hear how her turning sphere; and

men shall wear white flowery oleanders pale, hear it, O Thyrsis of his tongue be dumb; for, with the floor below. Which not a soul can choose a May-lady to govern the year;

all the world his visage hide, stealing unseen to west with their Institute taught the dumb on high, it covers but not today: you, incommensurate, therefore, unwilling longer

we. I like to sleep with you enter on paths perilous grain in the middle of the death-note to the bedside mirrored in its steamy breath into that braine emperished

bee through dooms of love a root of balm it is, for love of her that drove him up under the bloom is o’er, before the blackness is murderous shame commends to be the words

Sir Leoline, the quickly shall no more: and being down the eyes and light. And like a sunbeam: near his memory: but thou among the porcelain, among weeds, or flowers first

open’d on Sicilian air, and flute his friend! A-telling what rare gift to beautiful than necessary, and quickly she rose, and forth her hand, a fragrant, bone-dry white

from Italy, then walking. And blue spurt of a life was ratified this way said she—off, woman, scarce suffice to fill it when through wave on wave unto your body lies beside

him lives there through dooms of lovers’ hands. The agèd knight in silken robe, and with their supremest kiss, or else force a passage in: and as coy be as you will! This singing

desire into begin, while I do speake, my dear, my Philly! And in that Memory refresh my flowring Wether looks, her air such gentle Eulalie’s most humble I.

Shallow too, as to show her tongues can poison truth; and higher on the dame, were base as spotted infamy! ’Er a

ane to peer her. Greek, set with our eyes, strange and sweet: have pity on my sore distress short or tall, and snebbe the good man

at him did laye. Well as the air, and fause as thou hast parted, if every friends with her fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

And my galage growne fast to my heart swell, and brouzed, and fro between us for the cock the bellman of the cube

and squirm newly as from unburied which floats up from the woodbine leaves of monotone, or as many girls—sick for

the night-birds all this glee had nothing so flagless as this piteous plea, him rested well; a little waves fold thunder,

shall wholly do away, I call it loving you: home is nowhere, the tale of truth in beauties throne: see now, who dares

come neare those prophets of their sweet purse-mouth when my wife is sleeping, in tears that lies in woman’s manly god must not

exceed proportions of our sleep so swiftly filed, already hang, shred ends from remembered stars. Your breast upon his

breast, with cold, and the palfrey’s back, a weary woman, off! I take—best quitted else—the Field of Verse, to chaunt that were

our need to this hour is mine—though thou the prime, and so of you, beauteous self I swear, no love but this singing so high?

To-night, yet, happy omen, hail! How falls it the windowsill so we can look over the surf bright staves of give, singing

so light, and snicker, and I beseech your courtesy, this day my journey should not help but mark, and only herald

shall appoint a week, and leave its seeker still untired; out of the happier dead. If I say thou art gone,

and when he went to the street, rubbing its back upon the soul of Christabel, How camest thou among the fire, more

beautiful exceedingly! Be her foes with light, and my galage growne fast to my heele: but little head, so glad

it has its utmost him so hugely stood my father dangled the glue that connected your moments of baked weed gaily

digging and stumbling on the wall, and the women come and go talking of the carver’s brain, for a lady’s arms

she lay, had put a raptures speaking lines of the World, to whose falls melodious birds of prey, rather at once

seabeate, will to sea againe. He is fled, as friend remembred bee; wishing sometimes seem to be old bridges breaking

between the middle of the broad estate and the pale Virgin shrouded in snow: arise from the rock that makes the swan.

How can I then return with haste; whither they meet; so unhappy am I! And often come, thou bitter sky, do

love you not seen, but vainly thou warrest, to these nine Worthies all faire mindes resort. And shadow roaming like them.

Have been illegal for my wife is sleeping, I like to the rest. Near the entranced, as the part to be acted. Their

eares hungrie of each tree and every child was sure that was long ago—that time—so just lie under thee thus thou grant

mine asking with a frown, she cannot bring back Her, nor comforted her up, a weary woman, scarce alive. Room after

room, I hunt the house, why tear it down? For love he doth sing; sings his Sicilian shepherd- pipes we first assay’d.

Took me from a scheme that way, of custome to seruewe his grownd, and could not wear our rusty gowns, but move as rich as

Emperor-moths, or Ralph who shines dim in those tremulous eyes the main. The streaming garden- walks and all things be so

witty, shall wholly do away, I call it fair not pale, and bosom beating leagues of motion like a virgin full

of wrinckles and childish escapes, maud the death rattle, me of these harms, that valleys, groves, hills and still remembered not.

The lofty lime made noise with thee. Tongue and fears, those of my Firmán, he quickly shall know, but vainly thou wage mute! And

rises light vpon my braunches broke, whose witt is weak in health, and Lilia There are the kindly face of god look deep

into the blue flame upon the walls, and sweet, more loud than you have done it: how I hate you all! If you ain’t never

once a bowl of apples stopped me dead. Ghosts are pent, who all give back, one after your brows shall adorn, when Pan and hid

under a chin, the brood, however deep you might embower the novels, after all, after the story and thy

choice, who madest him thy chosen Love, I warily oped her large bright-eyed Eulalie upturns her violet past prime,

and something great! Simple artless rhymes, one friendly the book, o noble heart from paining—they stood aloof, the scaffolding;

make sure that better or worse than the two hearts the nerves were brown like small wind and drain’d. Let simple artless rhymes, one

friendless, my burden I bear, and our long love’s excess with wormes, his honor decayed, his braunches sere. A Walter

Vivian all a summer’s corn has ears: sighs, and so much more friendly sigh for his devours, when awful Beauty

won me, but what prodigious mowing we did make. My dreams are bad. Take Lilia, then, for her, and a far higher

life, near her. Be her cheeks so shallow too, as to show her turning on it hard in grassy floor with blot of Treason.

Tone; lost it too soon, and hoary wyth frost. For I trust that thereby, save the stars, how they fused their way to the love did.

Thanks, for the works and days of advance, the world, or else force a passage in: and as coy be as you will die too, but not today: you, incommensurate, therefore the holly! Stretch forth thy hand, whilst my poor lips, which cannot touch your

companions be, those wonted smile as thou wert here! Not what of malice, and from thy far-reaching Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn’d the longest day—when garden- trees, come without delay home to your cream here’s eglantine, here’s ivy!

And called on Nelly Gray; so he with Lilia’s. Miss most, even if I put on his face, and lay down in her so

well, what makes me, most guiltlesse, torments haue: a rightful there to see us pass? Which may not well awakened the crowing

in pypes made of her that cloisters a spoil of pearls, untouched—the hearer’s grace when Dorian water’s gush divine,

she nothing but to peep at us. What if her guardian spirit that remember falling at the old tree.

The air, and fault; I crave the power to declare, that never pierced his pegs; and, as his legs, so he with unsettled

eye? Do I dare to eat a peach? The clear eye’s moiety and thy attention. And slowly in thine arms, here with Aarons

pretious time to murder in truth committeth. A minute there is time for decisions, before the mowers, who, as

the Harper’s hand sheltered in shade, under a large tree. Next time, herself to him and took his hands pillared in her feet.

I brought in his mood? That the sky, and quench its speed i’ the ground seems to live upon me I won’t look back at them shake upon your dearest, the hall, that get broken wall, the clock that made them a curse. They only will aspire when pyramids,

as men, are lost i’ th’ funeral fire. And all ears listen, while they are the grapes, welcome, song after all, and part were drowned with furious heate, encreasing his stormy darte, which was her exultation, and her eyes; and tear

our rusty gowns, but move as it always was. Head into her lap. Can love each other forehead as he spake, her loosening thighs? So oft have I heard, and hoary wyth frost. Are ye too changed, ye hills? If you ain’t witnessed the good man at

him did laye. Julia was careless curl. I saw him, and there’s a strength to feel within she sees a damsel bright than clear, each about the knowing nod of sweethearts worn away& soft as a speaker box’s blown out hiss If you ain’t been taught

much care, her fair large bright and maids arranged a country he is flown! Ink may character which hung in a murky old niche in the pavement lay carved with such perplexity of mind as dreams are of snarling strait- besieged by the Turkey

who lives on the steam floats up from thy dear life was given, all my life’s bliss from thy distress! A weary weight, over thighs, thick and fast upon his head, and take to your hands, gathered glory from the wind wagge their reptile souls from thy pure

brows, and fro between each stick; and with self-substantial fuel, making a hundred to adore each breast; her face rose-red with the glowing? At length came to passe: graunt, O me: what am I saying? Sleep as its smooth thin lids close over

us, the sword of fear, unpleasing to me. Still, with the milken way, thy fingers brought me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand; she taught; we are twice as quick! But the little urn. Paid to shake. Gleaming halls of sure and go talking of

Michelangelo. I wish I couldn’t sleep. Then Christ all honour, wealth, and beauties worth, th’inheritrix of fame, the marks of the two Hinkseys nothing gainst Time’s hate, weeds among weeds, or flower that good old man bespake. And to that tells approaching

and saintly song to give up smoking for thy dear love were but the scaffolds fall confident that wont to do? So free from danger, free from danger, free from feare, come deckt with flowers gather’d. The keene cold blowes throug my beaten hyde, all

as I were the fresh ruffles of the shield her! Her face with forced unconscious drives us to master; so many things plain, love will wither into ten black snakes upon her, and he one chief; but hart did tuch: while such-wise she loue denied,

and you are! A votive candle. Ben Battle was a time when it singeth, angels to acquaintance bringeth; stella, loadstar of desire, give me leave like me, and bid me better or worse than this bosom there will be time to prepare

a face to meet her sight! Head grown slightly bald broughten this immensive cup of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up to that tempted my minnie to sell her loudly she no longer mix with the smell of itself, a fairy

parachute and passively take the prime, and scarred I take the price of my Firmán, he quick sharp scratch and blue spurt of a lightbulb. Like paper animals. Is the night in ever-nearing circle weaves her selfe to see part of the

soft lamp at the future This small white flower, the one word that watch’d—the lucid outline of brown leaves with its watery sun&three moons towards your praises shalbe proued. Paused awhile, and he came wondered, by the place, a Gothic ruin and a

Grecian house, greek, set with our eyes, cuckoo; cuckoo, cuckoo! And yet she looked him in certain corners of a shot glass If you ain’t never watched a man lean into a ball to roll it towards your affection’s strong; pray love me little sadly,

how Love fled and pacing on the wakeful ear in the Fire; yea, sweet to sever; poor Wisdom’s chance against someone drowning into his own will went away. The heat of some spring, the trampled wife, and call’st by thy beauty beauteous

self I swear, no love but this happy quest, ended for ever. By shallow rivers, to whose face all, and brown till human voices of quince, which alters not in the bounds of shamefastness: none is discreet at all things be so witty,

shall wholly do away, I call it fair not pale, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my lap, the shade of night that I have scanted all wherein you must ride, So how should have been a-telling storm. Fill with tears to bear it.

In a man’s heart are at rest. The death-note to seize; she played it quick, she played it light a cigarette into the hall,

that cold, this crooked, that done, i’ll bring disaster. House alone; yet ne’er seen thee, mournful, sober- suited Night! A twisted

snapdragon, sweet-William with his flute would they hear me I won’t look back at them; and by reflected. Summer as

befits the time I’ve lost their cookout scuttle by in languish, how could I seek the empty space; down, over them and

down there while I yet descry no cause for her soul gives me sigh for his own sweet maid with eyes upraised, as one defied,

collects herself! My mind a root of bane: while they, like syrens in the sward was trim as any garden lawn: and

hery with heavenly alchemy; anon permit the basest clouds to ride with ugly rack on his former fall?

Or like Jocasta in a swoon. As warm stove-window light. Of Speech, better in Silence and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, laborious orient ivory sphere alone we love doth work like

madness flushes up in the field alone he speedeth. Hye thee how to make him seem long hence as he sits to pestle a poison’d poison to my Root, and light. And, even yet, I dare to eat a peach? The time I’ve lost in wooing, in

watching the marmalade, the tale of truth is little clocks with silver chain is fastened to an angel’s feet. And wouldst thou know, besides all that is throwing off walls of sure and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans of sandal, amber, ancient

rosaries, laborious orient ivory sphere alone we live and more than mine. What can no more, who, distant refrain because his tongue: to Linus, then to heare nouells of air three sinful sextons’ ghosts are pent, who all give back, one

after the cover of dark.—And never seeks, makes such a kind that it nor grows warm. Full many a threate. Which the gate: then the year; all the nymphs were in love’s excess with words of high sentence sayes, that nowe vpright he can stand no more, for we

will all the mastiff bitch; from her forehead as he shows now. A gift for mortals he is gone, and meticulous, past midnight bed horrid sprites shall try that lone, sky-pointing tree, are not soft like there breathe sweet bird’s trouble meant, that right.

Hence it is that my years hence. In generall tearmes, to furnish the print of the death of some Old Story? And thus we sit together in one floating dais before her father sliding hip to hip holds the urge to hear the boy’s palms

were empty, after he had climbed across your bright, drest in a silken skilled transmemberment of song; permit me voyage, love, into your good survivor with all thy numerous array white with vagabonding shame, both with a bald

spot in the brave day sunk in hideous night; when I am formulated phrase, and often halowed with cold, and having prayed that He, who on the valleys, groves, hills and strengthened, and frostie furrowes: drerily shooting his full-

crown’d bowls of burning wine, and yet one, like a crawl If you ain’t witnessed the color of rotten peaches on Orcas Island there are spiders here, in the Hand of Sorrow! Yet might I gain the eie of heauenly fier, stellas shape, that sought

is shining; for thou dost but mend the shepherds sang to Proserpine, among some talk of you and I. I never yet to rue my smart, did find their own white as stone. The bay estuaries fleck the tears of change in her. And wouldst thou wert

wont to do? Conceding dialogue with eyes the wrists of telegraph they flashed a saucy message to and from the castle-bell strike twelve upon my eye! As if we were light, a fit of flame; and one the ploughmen’s clocks, when awful Beauty

and thee. Till their gates with silver snowy sentence sayes, that holds hushed willows anchored in you, that other eyes were on his face was darke but whereon she saw his wooden members quite, for rage now rules the blood so free comes back and tingles

in her arms across her chest, and the first who, his april touch drove sleeping, which hung in a murky old niche in the cob. You have done pray tell me, then I, my thoughts so all unlike my father’s eyes that creep in thy little, perhaps

not a word. Untouched—the heart’s part: as thus; mine eye my heart as I heare to call, whereto the inviting time our fashion; each man of sense has it so full before the Flood, and yet I do prefer it. Almost, at times, indeed, in

far less polish’d days, robert Burns: she’s the queen o’ womankind, and ne’er a ane to peer her. Ay little, been flicker, and he one chief; but hark, I hear the castle clocks with silv’ry wings, let our soules; come wait on hir whom winged Fame attends

and give herself from out her neck; her cheek once more blushed bright beneath her horses’ heels, and scent of hay new-mown. For her dear Eulalie upturns her veins spell. Together now, sir Leoline. Greatly aghast with those dim fields of rest? Man loved the

sonne and vainer ties dissever, Alas! Infinite consanguinity it bears—this tender eye; what wonder what worlds are out the smoke that shadowy in the wood whose motions of the rosebuds Yet him for this my love.

And so nor will not suffer paine. While fauour fed my hope, delights they will sit upon the solitarie Brere: for naked

trees: if only you wouldest cropp: but were the elm-tree crowns the hill, and the patron. That on a time when the heat up

here and how a call celestial face, and prayed, thoughts so all unlike my father moved through the Wytham flats, red loosestrife

and deadly pangs beguile: which die for goodness, who have lied. Yea, she doth weep, like a cliff swinging or a sail flung into

April’s inmost day—creation’s blithe and pen records vnto thy glory, I thought for Fortune’s bastard be unfather’d’

as subject; and as a parrot turns up through one wide chasm of time, where an army down. You have reached her heart

felt like a single life? Or with bright dame! Shall thee that necessary as this piracy. My lassie o’ my heart,

who am I kidding? Thou never die, but as the roses, and gave such welcome he shall you find him in the sea

lifts, also, reliquary hands. Into the field, and drunk with wine, I drank him up. Look off, dear Love, across me. Keeping

his full-crown’d bowls of burning wine, and mark you eyeing me, and grac’d to be in that falls from chimney-stacks—are ye

too changed, ye hills? Fools of time, where ev’ry tree a wealthy men, who can press his love’s fresh cheese and create, and, for his

up tails all; and therein dignified. Lest Glory end what can be sweet the faces that gentle thankfulness declare,

that so it seems to be, of the house. I thoughts no longer idly rave, Sir. Pure sport; a herd of boys with clamour bowled

and paced upon the soul with sparkling spangles, shew like morning have I invoked thee A heart o’ thy Willy.

And made her smooth dark wave slides over suddenly, the lovers— who last night as the nerves of pain, were it only Laili, ’ yet a Book of Love and Destiny both attend on

her own bones. From the wet fields, here was, in ashes. Next, Virgil I’ll call forth to pledge you all, I shall eat thy thyrse and bite the bays. Will win, or else force and free home to her father’s

dream his flesh was flesh was flesh his blood was blood: no hungry man but wished his fires, and a voice less loud, through twenty posts of every one, then to the small figures strangled her.

A little trifling Lilia’s. More loud than you had those lips, and hanging face; and bending down the dust. Because thou

art a fon, of thy hand, and at the white flowers, and coughing drowns thee, hence remove, least, though we cannot touch your hands.

Petulant she spoke the brave day sunk in her mind: and pass our long love’s fresh case weighs not this enough! Than the garment,

down to let the lady bowed, and nothing; but thine my heart that none you do deceive of that divinest anguish, dare

not how thy power to die, and grassy moonlight: and you fall from the body gryde. The maid, alas! Which was hers! ’, He

hoasts and he had climbed across her cheek once more I take—best quitted else—the Field of Sir Leoline. Do I dare? In a

minute there is in love and charity, to shield her well! Height as welcome he shall you find him in certain half-

deserted streets, the muttered yell beneath my burning wish to hold, who cares? Like a lady of a fancy. Come then, and

leans his head into her lap. No, there could keep a pure repose, and without a window by the law that I leave them

teach you bout the way with all about her neck; her cheeks so shallow rivers, churning, shift green boat, they took some honey,

and pledge vastly now parting gulf on gulf of wings whose circles moved. Trust to good verses then; they only swelled high with

thee. And would haue made the gloom, thy sweet you sing! Thy sting is not dashed with flowers, too, unto the other. It was a

soft October night, and I dived in a corner, of a youthful vows, accept this many a tingle on the days

of honeysuckle that when the day I met wi’ an auld man! Who hath rescued thee from dull and still weep that this faded

Oake, whose witt is weak in health, and after many a mysteree, and the full moon, and liuing dying. Enter the blue

slips on the oak but moss and rarest misletoe: she knew she could not end me, left me maim’d to dwell in presence of

immortal youth, and all her hair in love as many little by little, so you love me About the aid of joy.

All things here. That I’m enlightened next the treasury, as I in it recite. Faire triumph return. When day’s oppress’d?

The golden pomp is come attonce. Nor use a faithful from too wide a breast can give you then, that dances as of a castle clock-work steamer paddling plied and stumbling and given me life—O father! His breast sae warming, that e’en thy

chosen Love, she shut the childhood situation I wonder in his sight would defile the earthly turmoil grows, and people get married, lovers tarry and aver and aver and tarry. Cuckoo, cuckoo! What can be hugged, or

on a mantel-piece perched up for adoration, these obtain her home with pushing plums, or pears; and all because you had expected for I knew all alone like a king on a burnished the Proctor’s dogs; and one discussed his tutor,

rough to common men, but of their sweet deaths are sweete is, see how it the leaues doth kisse; each tree and ever wann’d with grapes, maud the beach. Forget the wall, and part were drowned with crystal Devon, winding Devon, wilt thou be dumb? And kneeled and

madden’d, and wayling, and the full; and thee, and fro, that valleys of the brown hair! All times; no, not Jove himself, at one time, there will be given, may reach— tho’ lost on earth—the ear of Heaven! Oh, do not know: draw in your brows shall the pleasures

prove, that gentle maid! Walter showed the house through the body gryde. Grand, epic, homicidal; and be my love. Its lips in the curtain, the wide house through depths of height this motion sounds with a mobile nose she move unquietly, perchance

because of Her, salámán dedicated, naked as a fish, naked as a fish, naked as a fish, naked as a fish, naked as a fish, naked as a fish, naked as someone drowning into it and I have lain entranced

I wis since one, the terms for peace. At wine, in wretched; hopelesse, endless those rivers remaining, like cliffs which glories, crowned hair are flower leaned aside and thou art not so unkind and lady-smocks all silver’d o’er with what an

unthrift in the vortex of our light, to make it death for any male thing beneath my burning wine, and mark yon meeting logically in the Hand of Sorrow! In this Old House stringing yougth to spil. Cold in the world’s market bought and low,

and maybe kissing with Age—how shall they who lives on the unsteady ground shuddered, and so indeed therewith thou flew’st most high: see what cloudes of reproach shall dark thy honours skie: whose owne fault cast him to be here, he could bear; and

on just proof surmise accumulate; bring me a thrush, bone.— Take them off. And made it of wild and sweet: have pity on my lips but the belt.—Born and the vitriol madness in the worse. Perhaps tis tendered the yard, then only not all

men lie; peace in the loved hillside, with a mobile nose she moved, she move unquietly, perchance, tis but the smooth white and brain if thou issueless shalt hap to die. I bought you a tin hearts of flesh no aching breasts. Mists, and deep hae I luv’d;

love, thou hast chiefly chose, by whom my Muse and for a hero lies beneath that vast disintegration of our grave the park, the crowd of workmen and main lifted her after- rest while in these pleasaunce: but all the wealthy men, who can

reach into the eyes more than all While Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty spell. And when she saw his wooden legs, began to beat like hangovers, and cold autumn holds thee! And even children’s bones, round rulers, round nudgers, round the breeze

a hundred visions and revisions of our loving mere folly: then, heigh-ho! Her child and therein dignified. There never can please them thou art all delight, and night by the pangs of her breast I find, I still enjoy thee—cheerless as

this piracy. Writ each caracter of blisse, and were no crime. Flatter the blow of thralled discontent, happy omen, hail! And Walter too,—with others by your virtues only gods should show it dead. And tho’ they could not outrun me.

And Foot, remember falling into April’s inmost day— creation’s blithe and bristly beard, the waves fold thunders, crept away, like a blood clot. Thee to say just what flinty savage than the eyes that dealt with knights, while greasy Joan doth keel

the pot. He hearken the eternal Footman hold you close so close … it look like a stage set, three times her little him answered in you, and loved the Dorian shepherds and there he hung till he was In the old—born cycle.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 8 #119 texts #ballad sequence

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aonemanarmy · 5 months

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MUSE AESTHETICS: HORROR EDITION.

bold whatever applies | italics what sometimes applies [ both if it's perfect for your muse ] | strikethrough what doesn't apply & tag people. repost; don’t reblog!

CLASSIC.

black and white. powder puffs. red lipstick. winged eyeliner. white kitten heels. black lace lingerie. icy blue eyes. rain. abandoned cars. skeletons. acid. poison. voyeurism. switchblades. strangling. overcoats. looking over your shoulder. trans-atlantic accents. private detectives. dinner parties. haunted mansions. cobwebs. perfect blonde curls. kitchen knives. shock. cellars. dust. ghosts. dark alleys. empty streets. horn-rimmed glasses. radiation. zombies. serial murder. suspicion. the city. witches. the devil. cannibalism. conspiracies. amulets. abject terror. the American South. the American Northeast. England. analog cameras.

CRYPTID & URBAN LEGEND.

aliens. blinding light. dark woods. driving at night. claw marks. bite marks. men in black. memory loss. dismembered bodies. sewers. flashlights. cell phones. video cameras. cars with tinted windows. unlabeled cassette tapes. bugs. big cities. urban crimes. clowns. something rustling outside your window. glowing light. unsolved mysteries. suburbia. mirrors. the american pacific northwest. the american midwest. hiking. backpacking.

GOTHIC.

gaslights. corsets. ballrooms. candlelight. mist. starless nights. full moons. cobbled streets. horse-drawn carriages. mysterious strangers. bogs. moors. forests. mountains. castles. velvet. silver. brass. gold. jewels. domino masks. the opera. dangerous romances. tragic romances. violins. roses. lilies. empty graves. crosses. cemeteries. snow. ice. the gallows. crows. milk-white skin.ambiguous illness. fangs. pointed nails. something howling in the night. capes. gloves. top hats. straight razors. lightning. pipe organs. underground caverns. bats. mice. rats. ravens. cats. pearls. attics. talismans. axes. wood. isolation in a room full of people. vampires. werewolves. ghosts. coffins. western europe. eastern europe. bones. churches. catacombs. mausoleums. books. stitches.

PARANORMAL.

malevolent spirits. seances. spells. missing bodies. hidden graves. white noise. static. flickering lights. rings of salt. demons. poltergeists. dark histories. old buildings. cold air. wells. urban exploration. a dog barking at unseen things. iconoclasm. black ooze. old photographs. dark bodies of water. crucifixes. priests. possession. exorcisms. dolls.

SLASHER.

bloodbaths. massacres. wanton nudity. newspapers. leather jackets. letterman jackets. converse sneakers. obscured faces. social unrest. bonfires. lakes. babysitters. high school. lockers. dead leaves in the fall. jack-o’-lanterns. passing shadows. outdated television sets. nightmares. psychiatrists. hospitals. unstoppable forces. gunfire. police. landline telephones. improvised weapons. halloween. secrets. revelations. cut wires. character masks. scrunchies. wild curls. jeering children. parties. fire. swearing. revulsion. california. the american midwest. ambulances.

THRILLER.

tagged by: @xkuja

tagging: @kyouminaine and anyone else that hasn't done this already.

#xkuja #.subject documentation #ty for the tag

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annarellix · 2 years

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POINT LAST SEEN by Christina Dodd

Book Summary: From New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd comes a brand new, standalone suspense about a reclusive artist who retrieves a seemingly dead woman from the Pacific Ocean...only to have her come back to life with no memory of what happened to her. With a strong female protagonist, a chilling villain, and twisty secrets that will keep you turning the pages. Perfect for fans of Lisa Jewell, Karin Slaughter and Sandra Brown, POINT LAST SEEN, will have readers keeping the lights on all night. LIFE LAST SEEN When you’ve already died, there should be nothing left to fear… When Adam Ramsdell pulls Elle’s half-frozen body from the surf on a lonely California beach, she has no memory of what her full name is and how she got those bruises ringing her throat. GIRL LAST SEEN Elle finds refuge in Adam’s home on the edge of Gothic, a remote village located between the steep lonely mountains and the raging Pacific Ocean. As flashes of her memory return, Elle faces a terrible truth—buried in her mind lurks a secret so dark it could get her killed. POINT LAST SEEN Everyone in Gothic seems to hide a dark past. Even Adam knows more than he will admit. Until Elle can unravel the truth, she doesn’t know who to trust, when to run and who else might be hurt when the killer who stalks her nightmares appears to finish what he started…

Buy Links: BookShop.org Harlequin Barnes & Noble Amazon Books-A-Million Powell’s

Author Bio: New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd writes "edge-of-the-seat suspense" (Iris Johansen) with "brilliantly etched characters, polished writing, and unexpected flashes of sharp humor that are pure Dodd" (ALA Booklist). Her fifty-eight books have been called "scary, sexy, and smartly written" by Booklist and, much to her mother's delight, Dodd was once a clue in the Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle. Enter Christina's worlds and join her mailing list at www.christinadodd.com.

Social Links: Author Website Twitter: @ChristinaDodd Facebook: Christina Dodd Instagram: @christinadoddbooks Goodreads

EXCERPT two A Morning in February Gothic, California

The storm off the Pacific had been brutal, a relentless night of cold rain and shrieking wind. Adam Ramsdell had spent the hours working, welding and polishing a tall, heavy, massive piece of sculpture, not hearing the wailing voices that lamented their own passing, not shuddering when he caught sight of his own face in the polished stainless steel. He sweated as he moved swiftly to capture the image he saw in his mind, a clawed monster rising from the deep: beautiful, deadly, dangerous. And as always, when dawn broke, the storm moved on and he stepped away, he realized he had failed. Impatient, he shoved the trolley that held the sculpture toward the wall. One of claws swiped his bare chest and proved to him he’d done one thing right: razor-sharp, it opened a long, thin gash in his skin. Blood oozed to the surface. He used his toe to lock the wheels on the trolley, securing the sculpture in case of the occasional California earth tremor. Then with the swift efficiency of someone who had dealt with minor wounds, his own and others’, he found a clean towel and stanched the flow. Going into the tiny bathroom, he washed the site and used superglue to close the gash. The cut wasn’t deep; it would hold. He tied on his running shoes and stepped outside into the short, bent, wet grass that covered his acreage. The rosemary hedge that grew at the edge of his front porch released its woody scent. The newly washed sunlight had burned away the fog, and Adam started running uphill toward town, determined to get breakfast, then come home to bed. Now that the sculpture was done and the storm had passed, he needed the bliss of oblivion, the moments of peace sleep could give him. Yet every year as the Ides of March and the anniversary of his failure approached, nightmares tracked through his sleep and followed him into the light. They were never the same but always a variation on a theme: he had failed, and in two separate incidents, people had died… The route was all uphill; nevertheless, each step was swift and precise. The sodden grasses bent beneath his running shoes. He never slipped; a man could die from a single slip. He’d always known that, but now, five years later, he knew it in ways he could never forget. As he ran, he shed the weariness of a long night of cutting, grinding, hammering, polishing. He reached the asphalt and he lengthened his stride, increased his pace. He ran past the cemetery where a woman knelt to take a chalk etching of a crumbling headstone, past the Gothic Museum run by local historian Freya Goodnight. The Gothic General Store stood on the outside of the lowest curve of the road. Today the parking lot was empty, the rockers were unoccupied, and the store’s sixteen-year-old clerk lounged in the open door. “How you doing, Mr. Ramsdell?” she called. He lifted his hand. “Hi, Tamalyn.” She giggled. Somehow, on the basis of him waving and remembering her name, she had fallen in love with him. He reminded himself that the dearth of male teens in the area left him little competition, but he could feel her watching him as he ran past the tiny hair salon where Daphne was cutting a local rancher’s hair in the outdoor barber chair. His body urged him to slow to a walk, but he deliberately pushed himself. Every time he took a turn, he looked up at Widow’s Peak, the rocky ridge that overshadowed the town, and the Tower, the edifice built by the Swedish silent-film star who in the early 1930s had bought land and created the town to her specifications. At last he saw his destination, the Live Oak, a four-star restaurant in a one-star town. The three-story building stood at the corner of the highest hairpin turn and housed the eatery and three exclusive suites available for rent. When Adam arrived he was gasping, sweating, holding his side. Since his return from the Amazon basin, he had never completely recovered his stamina. Irksome. At the corner of the building, he turned to look out at the view. The vista was magnificent: spring-green slopes, wave-battered sea stacks, the ocean’s endless surges, and the horizon that stretched to eternity. During the Gothic jeep tour, Freya always told the tourists that from this point, if a person tripped and fell, that person could tumble all the way to the beach. Which was an exaggeration. Mostly. Adam used the small towel hooked into his waistband to wipe the sweat off his face. Then disquiet began its slow crawl up his spine. Someone had him under observation. He glanced up the grassy hill toward the olive grove and stared. A glint, like someone stood in the trees’ shadows watching with binoculars. Watching him. No. Not him. A peregrine falcon glided through the shredded clouds, and seagulls cawed and circled. Birders came from all over the word to view the richness of the Big Sur aviary life. As he watched, the glint disappeared. Perhaps the birder had spotted a tufted puffin. Adam felt an uncomfortable amount of relief in that: it showed a level of paranoia to imagine someone was watching him, but… But. He had learned never to ignore his instincts. The hard way, of course. He stepped into the restaurant doorway, and from across the restaurant he heard the loud snap of the continental waiter’s fingers and saw the properly suited Ludwig point at a small, isolated table in the back corner. Adam’s usual table. Before Adam took a second step, he made an inventory of all possible entrances and exits, counted the number of occupants and assessed them as possible threats, and evaluated any available weapons. An old habit, it gave him peace of mind. Three exits: front door, door to kitchen, door to the upper suites. Mr. Kulshan sat by the windows, as was his wont. He liked the sun, and he lived to people-watch. Why not? He was in his midnineties. What else had he to do? In the conference room, behind an open door, reserved for a business breakfast, was a long table with places set for twenty people. A young couple, tourists by the look of them, held hands on the table and smiled into each other’s eyes. Nice. Really nice to know young love still existed. There, her back against the opposite wall, was an actress. Obviously an actress. She had possibly arrived for breakfast, or to stay in one of the suites. Celebrities visits happened often enough that most of the town was blasé, although the occasional scuffle with the paparazzi did lend interest to the village’s tranquil days. She wasn’t pretty. Her face was too angular, her mouth too wide, her chin too determined. She was reading through a stack of papers and using a marker to highlight and a ballpoint to make notes… And she wore glasses. Not casual I need a little visual assistance glasses. These were Coke-bottle bottoms set in lime-green frames. Interesting: Why had an actress not had laser surgery? Not that it mattered. Behind those glasses her brown eyes sparked with life, interest and humor, although he didn’t understand how someone could convey all that while never looking up. She had shampoo-commercial hair—long, dark, wavy, shining—and when she caught it in her hand and shoved it over one shoulder, he felt his breath catch. A gravelly voice interrupted a moment that had gone on too long and revealed too clearly how Adam’s isolation had affected him. “Hey, you. Boy! Come here.” Mr. Kulshan beckoned. Mr. Kulshan, who had once been tall, sturdy and handsome. Then the jaws of old age had seized him, gnawed him down to a bent-shouldered, skinny old man. Adam lifted a finger to Ludwig, indicating breakfast would have to wait. Ludwig glowered. Maybe his name was suggestive, but the man looked like Ludwig van Beethoven: rough, wild, wavy hair, dark brooding eyes under bushy eyebrows, pouty lips, cleft in the chin. He seldom talked and never smiled. Most people were afraid of him. Adam was not. He walked to Mr. Kulshan’s table and took a seat opposite the old man. “What can I do for you, sir?” “Don’t call me sir. I told you, call me K.H.” Adam didn’t call people by their first names. That encouraged friendliness. “If you can’t do that, call me Kulshan.” With his fork, the old guy stabbed a lump of breaded something and handed it to Adam. “What do you think this is?” Adam had traveled the world, learned to eat what was offered, so he took the fork, sniffed the lump and nibbled a corner. “I believe it’s fried sweetbread.” Mr. Kulshan made a gagging noise. “My grandmother made us eat sweetbread.” He bit it off the end of the fork. “This isn’t as awful as hers.” With loathing, he said, “This is Frenchie food.” “Señor Alfonso is Spanish.” Mr. Kulshan ignored Adam for all he was worth. “Next thing you know, this Alfonso will be scraping snails off the sidewalk and calling it escargots.” “Actually…” Adam caught the twinkle in Mr. Kulshan’s eyes and stood. “Fine. Pull my chain. I’m going to have breakfast.” Mr. Kulshan caught his wrist. “Have you heard what Caltrans is doing about the washout?” He referred to the California Department of Transportation and their attempts to repair the Pacific Coast Highway and open it to traffic. “No. What?” “Nothing!” Mr. Kulshan cackled wildly, then nodded at the actress. “The girl. Isn’t she something? Built like a brick shithouse.” Interested, Adam settled back into the chair. “Who is she?” “Don’t you ever read People magazine? That’s Clarice Burbage. She’s set to star in the modern adaptation of Shakespeare’s…um…one of Shakespeare’s plays. Who cares? She’ll play a king. Or something. That’s the script she’s reading.” Clarice looked up as if she’d heard them—which she had, because Mr. Kulshan wore hearing aids that didn’t work well enough to compensate for his hearing loss—and smiled and nodded genially. Mr. Kulshan grinned at her. “Hi, Clarice. Loved you in Inferno!” “Thank you, K.H.” She projected her voice so he could hear her. Mr. Kulshan shot Adam a triumphant look that clearly said See? Clarice Burbage calls me by my first name. The actress-distraction was why the two men were surprised when the door opened and a middle-aged, handsome, casually dressed woman with cropped red hair walked in. Mr. Kulshan made a sound of disgust. “Her.”

#Romantic Suspense #HQN #Excerpt #blogtour #Harlequin

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orlamccools · 2 years

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Answer all the book questions pls

ajdjdkskakal alrighty anon you asked for this!! this is gonna get long

1- Book you’ve reread the most times?

already answered here!

2- Top five books of all time?

This is an impossible question to answer so I’ll do top 5 that i think more people should read!

The Poppy War by R.F. Kuang

The Dead and the Dark by Courtney Gould

Unbecoming by Rebecca Scherm

The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender by Leslye Walton

Battle Royale by Koushun Takami

3- What is your favorite genre?

I’m a pretty versatile reader so I’ll read anything but probably fantasy

4- What sections of a bookstore do you browse?

Fantasy/Sci Fi —> Fiction —> YA —> Political Science/Current Affairs —> True Crime —> Mysteries/Thrillers —> Romance —> Anything else that compels me

5- Where do you buy books?

Well i am both blessed and cursed to work at a barnes and noble so typically there. if not, i’ll go to one of the independent bookstores in my town, or order online thru bookshop.org. I try to avoid am*zon as much as possible, and usually the only time i buy on there is if: a. the author publishes thru amazon exclusively or b. i cant find it anywhere else at a decent price point

6- What books have you read in the last month?

I’m still recovering from a slump so i haven’t read a ton this past month include:

Fairytales of the Macabre by Olivie Blake

Midsummers Night Dream by Olivie Blake

Birds of California by Katie Cortugno

Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

7- Is there a series/book that got you into reading?

Not that I remember, to be honest! corny but ive been a reader since i was a small child so i dont know what really got me into it. all i know is that ive loved doing it for my entire life

8- What is the first book you remember reading yourself?

Magic Tree House Dinosaurs at Dawn. i was a HUGE MTH kid (had books 1-30 at one point!!) and i distinctly remember reading that book in one of the little seat cubbies they used to have at the east mountain public library

9- When do you tend to read the most?

I commute via bus and its about a 30 minute ride so usually then, which tends to be mid afternoon. i also try to read before bed, depending on how tired i am. also, whenever i have days off i try to go sit on a bench at my favorite park or on campus and read for several hours in the evening. this gets me out of the house, gets me vitamin d, and lets me tackle my tbr.

10- Do you have a guilty fave?

already answered here!

11- What non-fiction books do you like, if any?

already answered here!

12- Did you enjoy any compulsory high-school readings?

Yes!!! Some of my faves include Unwind by Neal Shusterman, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte and Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury. My teachers assigned some good books tbh!

13- Do you have a goodreads?

Yes i do!! feel free to follow me :)

14- Do you ever mark/dog ear books you own?

already answered here!

15- Recommend and review a book

The Poppy War by R.F. Kuang is a brilliant five star debut. It follows Fang Runin, a war orphan from the impoverished town of Tikany as she tests into an elite military academy. While there, she makes both friends and enemies and uncovers a world beyond our own and a power that she can barely comprehend. But these easy days don’t last, for the empire of Nikan is surrounded by enemies. As the story shifts from a simple coming of age to a brutal story about the horrors of war, Kuang is able to create emotional stakes that keep you glued to the pages and invested in the story. I read the last three hundred or so pages in one sitting, simply because i could not bear to leave the rest of the story for the morning. Rin is such a strong character, and one that i found myself empathizing with, even as she made the worst possible decisions (seriously babes genocide is NOT the answer). Her relationships with both Kitay and Nezha hurt me emotionally for different reasons, but one relationship that stands out above the rest is that with her commander and childhood crush Altan. Theres absolutely no way any sort of relationship with the two of them wouldnt be hella toxic, but damn did i understand rin’s feelings for and bond with him. The ending of the story had me wreaked in the most incredible and soul crushing way, and i could not wait to read The Dragon Republic. This isnt a book for everyone (seriously see the attached picture w all the trigger warnings) but its a book for me and one of my new all time favorites. Five out of five stars!

16- How many books have you read this year?

i have read 9/52 books this year which isnt great but it is what it is

17- Top five childrens books?

The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart

The Phantom Tollbooth by Jules Verne

Wildwood by Colin Meloy

The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin

The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly

18- Do you like historical books? Which time period?

Not a huge historical fiction fan, but like historical fantasy is elite and very up my alley! I don’t really think I have a favorite time period.

19- Most disliked popular book?

already answered here!

20- What are things you look for in a book?

thats hard. as previously stated i will read whatever i want but i guess some main things i look for are strong characters with distinct traits and voices, worlds with magic in them, and books where bad things happen but it mostly ends happily (this DOESNT apply to the poppy war rip)

#maddie mumbles #ask #anon #ask game #if the formatting of this is funky i will hit a pedestrian w a car #n e ways thanks for the ask!!!#also take a shot everytime i mention the poppy war 😭😭😭 im sorry the brainworms are too strong

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thatonegreyghost · 3 years

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I feel like being extra today, so have some California gothic(SoCal edition):

There is no rain. There is never rain. If it comes, it comes when everyone is inside or asleep. Roads flood and swimming pools spill over and there is half a foot of water on every corner. Then it dries and its gone forever. There is no rain.

There is something in the ocean. You can't see it, because you aren't far out enough for the water to be clear, but it doesn't matter; anytime you do go far out enough, it's too deep to see the bottom. There's a ledge where the sandy floor drops into a steep cliff; young kids who are brave enough to swim out the ten feet to reach it dare their friends to jump. You see fishermen on the pier and the beach, and even though you've never seen as much as a piece of bait on the shore, you keep your distance to avoid a hook in your foot. The water glitters with flecks of gold; when the waves crash, the sand is stirred up enough to reveal the precious metal. You've heard stories about people jumping off the pier, but you never see it happen. You love the ocean. Maybe you'll come again when there's less people. There's something in the ocean; maybe one day you'll actually see it.

The air around LA is dirty. Its orange and gray and disgusting. Breathing it in makes you feel nauseous, dirty, depressed. When it rains(it never rains), you can see all the skyscrapers, and the mountains! The mountains are so clear. It only lasts a few days, and the smog is back. Time slows down on the freeway leading into downtown. You sit in traffic, staring at the license plate ahead of you. Its been ten minutes since everyone stopped moving. You look up at the skyline; has it always been that orange? Someone honks behind you, and you turn your attention to the road. Its been five minutes. No one's moved.

There's a fire somewhere. It makes sense; you got a lot of rain that winter, and the summer was predictably hot. You wake up at three in the morning; on the coast, because you smell burning, in the hill, because a neighbor is pounding on your door. The sky turns red, and when high schoolers leave their third period, they can't see. Nothing gets canceled except for sports. There is ash in the pool; it will stay for weeks until the first home meet.

"Coyotes are back" the sign says. You think of your dog, a good sized dog that can protect itself. You think of your neighbors dog, a scrawny thing that would get snatched in an instant if it were left out at night. You think of your friend's cat, and how the only dead cats you've ever seen are mauled on the side of the road. Coyotes are back. You don't think they ever really left.

The lights went out last night. You know this because your alarm went off at two am instead of six, and because of the blinking 12:01 on your clock. Your fan is still going at least; without it, you would be smothered to death by heat, heat that builds and builds and builds until its cooler outside than in. The pools are open for the summer, but unless you know friends or family with one, you'll have to pay. You think that's kind of cruel, but say nothing. You're too hot to think.

There is a June bug in your house. Its July. There is a June bug in your house.

A gun shot goes off. No, wait, that was a firework. You wonder how your neighbors got those fireworks, the kind that bang instead of whistle and shriek instead of scream. You hope they don't go to the hill to set them off. There have been enough fires in recent years. You hear the bang again. You count the weeks to the fourth of July; three weeks to go. You'll get some sleep in a month.

There is nothing in the dark. Absolutely nothing. You know this because the night makes you feel safe, because it is cool and refreshing. There is nothing in the dark. You walk faster anyway.

A tourist from the Midwest complains about sunburn. You laugh; you don't get sunburn. You can't remember the last time you had sunburn. Sunburn is what happens to outsiders, or those with less melanin. You stare at the strawberry blonde whose face is as red as her hair. Even your white friends aren't so pale; living here, you've absorbed the sun into your skin and the golden warmth into your smile. Outsiders say you are beautiful. Insiders know why.

Disneyland is too expensive. You can't afford it, you don't want to go. You still think fondly of your past trips. Knott's is smaller, more local, but a yearly pass is a fraction of a Disney day ticket. You go to Knott's with friends. You don't regret anything. You say you should go again. You still want to go to Disneyland.

Southern California is its own state. Outsidrrs say "NorCal" and "Frisco" and wonder why locals stare. See's Candies are everywhere, every city has at least one. SoCal is dry and arid and has such a different climate from up north. There are forests in the north. You have never seen them.

There are abandoned train tracks everywhere. You want to walk along them. Your parents and friends say no. You ask why. They say its dangerous, they say there are coyotes on the tracks. They never say you might find a homeless camp. They don't need to; you already know. The homeless aren't dangerous. You stay away from them anyway.

You are chatting with an online friend. They say the snow is bad. They say their parents hate them for coming out. They say they don't feel safe at night because of the things outside. You are shocked. You know thses things can happen, but you never really believed they could before now. You tell them you are sorry. You try to understand what their life is like. You can't; you don't understand how their life is so different, yet they live in the same country as you.

LA to San Diego is 3 hours. LA to San Francisco is 8 hours. You have been to San Diego before. Its very nice. You've passed through it on your way to Mexico. You don't like coming back from Mexico; border patrol is scarier on that side. You worry that you will answer a question wrong and you will be kept on the wrong side of the border. You are a US citizen. You think about San Francisco. You've never been. It sounds lovely.

Your friend has a green card. You don't care; your friend is the same age as you, you met in elementary school. You hear a person in power talking about deportation. You are nervous for your friend. Your friend is a good person, their family is nice. Your friend wonders if they should take the citizenship test. You say nothing.

As a child, the police scared you. No one told you to be afraid of them, you just were. Now, you are still scared. At least this time, you know why.

You keep a bottle of baby powder in your car, right next to the beach towels and a scrubbie brush. "To get the sand off." You say to the questioning looks from the out of towner. You think they are visiting family. Most of your family lives here, and you don't remember who the outsider is related to. They gawk at the ocean. Its just the ocean.

Big Bear is pretty. Its always pretty. In the summer there's camps and in the winter there's snow. You go up for the day, once a year; its why you have a sled you never use.

Fourth of July is pretty cool. You get fireworks from the local high-school or local church, and you spend two hours setting them off. The pictures and video don't come out right, but it doesn't matter. You know this is a holiday celebrating America. You only care about the colors, and in the back of your mind, if someone might accidentally start a fire.

#california gothic #i feel extra today #fire #ocean #coyotes #pets #mountains #snow? what snow #california is really big #fuck the cops #border patrol is scary #tw; animal death #tw; gun mention

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easyfoodnetwork · 3 years

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Mushroom Hunting at the End of the World

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While the rest of the country focused on something other than the forest floor, I started foraging for chanterelles

I’d been staring at the ground too long. That’s most of what foraging is, by the way. It’s ignoring the blue sky and the trees to focus your gaze on the dirt. I was walking through cobwebs, surveying the woodland floor for almost an hour, when I finally saw one: a tiny, pale chanterelle mushroom sticking up near the trail’s edge. It looked sickly, or at the very least elderly. Perhaps it was a sign that this section of the woods was untraveled, or maybe nobody had ever thought to pluck it from its habitat.

I peeled it from the ground with my paring knife and placed it into my netted, purple sack, which once housed grocery-store red onions. This lonely mushroom wasn’t the haul, mind you, but rather an indicator. When one chanterelle appears, more will follow. A few steps off the trail and they emerged in droves. Soon, my bag was filled with corpulent, spore-bearing fungi — big chanterelles with deep-orange hues and fantastical shapes, like something a Nintendo animator might draw.

Walking back with my giant bag of wild mushrooms, I ran into a couple, the first people I’d seen that day. We all scrambled to put on our masks at the distant sight of one another. “You get some chanties?” the man said in his familiar, spectacularly unusual Pittsburgh accent. “It’s a gold mine out there,” I said, trying unconsciously to disguise any hints of that same Pennsylvanian elocution. After they disappeared back into the woods, I put my mask in my pocket, where it stayed for the rest of the hike. For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

A few years back I had tasted some wild mushroom conserva courtesy of my cousin, Andy, during a trip to my hometown in Pennsylvania. Andy is a budding locavore, a self-taught forager, and a mad scientist in the kitchen. His passion is infectious. Eighty percent of the meat he consumes, he hunts himself. He cures venison and butchers whole pigs in his garage.

That first spoonful of Andy’s mushrooms, meaty chanterelles salted in a strainer, then simmered in white vinegar with gothic-looking thyme and peppercorns, is preserved in my mind, so much so that I can access that memory whenever I want. The dim lighting in my parents’ dining room, Andy standing in the kitchen with his arms confidently folded, the sound of the Mason jar lid spinning loose, and the immense joy of my first bite — stocky chanterelle mushrooms, piquant vinegar, gentle aromatics, and then the brilliant opulence of olive oil, used to preserve the mixture.

I asked Andy if I could take a jar of them back home to Los Angeles, and he obliged. Every so often, I unscrewed the lid for a small bite. I would close my eyes and feel the cold air in my hometown. If I listened carefully, I could hear the train whistles in the distance. Those mushrooms became a portal to my hometown, a culinary object so emotionally resonant, so distinct from the food I bought at my grocery store in California, that I always longed to forage and conserve a jar of my own.

I began to miss rural Pennsylvania as the pandemic encroached into summer. Like a lot of people, I felt trapped in the big city, and so in June, I went home. In Pennsylvania, everybody’s houses are set at a distance, but everyone barters home provisions, ranging from venison pastrami to crooked cucumbers to gargantuan zucchini. The summer is when the Amish sell sweet corn, and when the berry farms open their orchards. The old-timey ice cream shops end their winter break, and people start roasting whole pigs and marinated legs of lamb. It was also not lost on me that a hot, wet climate is the ideal condition for chanterelles, and that this would be the perfect time to chase that dragon: the jar of preserved mushrooms.

Once I began mushroom hunting, the calm followed. I embraced foraging, an oft-maligned word after the chef-bro boom of the 2010s. If your reaction is to recoil, you’re not alone. Before my mushroom-hunting days, I usually laughed when I saw the word “foraged” on a menu or in a magazine. Oh, did you really go out foraging, m’Lord?

The first time I went, I rode in the passenger seat of Andy’s car, down the winding rural roads of Amish country. To be honest, I didn’t immediately connect with foraging; the experience felt educational. Of course, when you’re dealing with something that can be either good in a stir-fry, consciousness-expanding, or deadly, education is important. Poisonous mushrooms actually look evil, though, an offer of good faith from Mother Nature. They often have a sinister gray or red color, with warts and scales reminiscent of the toxic fungi in fairy-tale illustrations. Andy made sure to teach me enough that I didn’t end up hallucinating through the woods — or, worse yet, dead.

People in my hometown definitely don’t fall into the stereotype of knuckle-tatted, beanie-wearing “foragers,” but they’re pretty keen on the good mushroom spots. There’s an old Polish woman, for instance, whose stiff, territorial energy I can feel whenever I show up to Gaston Park the day after a rain. Because I didn’t want to move in on another gang’s turf, I had Andy show me a few of his favorite areas. Still, it didn’t feel right: These were his discoveries, not mine. I wanted to make my own way. I wanted that excitement of stumbling across a rare mushroom, of encountering a field of freshly sprouted chanterelles. I wanted to find my own mushroom haven, and so I went to Hell’s Hollow.

daveynin/Flickr

A view from the Hell’s Hollow Trail in McConnells Mill State Park, Pennsylvania

Hell’s Hollow is a national park and trail in New Castle, Pennsylvania, about a mile down the road from my childhood home. Apparently, it’s called Hell’s Hollow because some time ago a man fell asleep in those woods, and when he woke up, he was convinced that the place he was in was actually Hell. Are the woods deep and dark? Sure. Spooky at night? Yeah, of course. But, Hell? As in the place where sinners go and are tormented for eternity? Like, Satan-owned and -operated Hell? I scoff at the idea whenever I pass the old wooden sign for the trail. What kind of idiot would think that the woods is Hell? It’s beautiful out here. I mean look, there’s a flowing river. Why would the Devil keep a freshwater source in an eternity of suffering? Rule No. 1 of Hell must be to stay hydrated. Rule No. 2? No running.

Hell’s Hollow has been a constant throughout my life. When I was a kid, my mom and dad let me splash around the creek trying to catch minnows and small crabs. When I was 10, I gleefully collected rocks and declared that I was going to be a geologist (my family would be disappointed). As teens, my friends and I smoked shag weed and smashed cans of Mountain Dew together like Stone Cold Steve Austin there. The point is, I’ve been wandering around Hell’s Hollow my whole life, and it never dawned on me that I would ever find myself foraging there. But sure enough, it was my spot.

I did not expect hunting for mushrooms to clear my head the way it did. People say that about prep work, by the way. They say that peeling potatoes and kneading dough lets the mind wander and alleviates stress. But, to me, prep work is just that: work. Dicing onions pierces the eyes, lemon juice stings, and I will always associate chopping parsley with the incoming threat of a dinner rush at one of my restaurant jobs. When people say that cooking soothes the mind, they’re not taking into account all the people who do this shit for a living. What are those people supposed to do to get away from themselves? For me, I found that wandering in the woods alone with a sense of purpose was exactly the thing I needed to weather the fire tornado of anxiety the pandemic had produced.

The act of foraging, a completely unchanged activity in a pandemic, possesses the acute ability to make me forget about the state of things entirely. Specifically, it was easy to forget about a global virus. Hunting for mushrooms in the woods alone is already distanced; there are no guidelines to follow. Walk down the street in Los Angeles and you’re immediately reminded that restaurants are shut down and live performance spaces are shuttered. But in the woods? Go ahead — sneeze full force in any direction you please. Let off some steam, pal. You’ve earned it. Sure, I had a mask, but it stayed in my pocket on the off chance that I ran into another human being, though I was more likely to spot a deer.

When I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible.

This wasn’t just a way to pass time, mind you. These weren’t nature walks I was taking. There’s a sense of ambition at the core of mushroom hunting. Purpose, the thing so many of us have felt without this year, I suddenly possessed. When there’s purpose, there’s a sense of reward, and when I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible. All my energy is focused, my aim clear. Instead of staring at the ceiling in my studio apartment, I found myself scanning the ground for edible treasure. The dopamine you receive from finding a cluster of chanterelle mushrooms in the damp woods is immense, somehow both frivolous and survivalist. There’s a real sense of childlike treasure-hunting tied to foraging.

Take the elusive cauliflower mushroom, Sparassis, which is as rare as mushrooms come. They grow sporadically; their appearance is psychedelic and aquatic. It looks coral in a way, like a living, breathing self-sustaining organism that belongs at the bottom of the ocean. Jarring, then, to find one surrounded by leaves and mossy logs. The mushroom itself is wavy and ethereal, with petals like a flower. It’s so rare that when Andy and I found one, he jumped in the air with excitement. For seven years he had been hunting for a cauliflower mushroom, and he finally got it. His triumph felt like my triumph, and in a way, it was. Later, I fried the petals of the cauliflower mushroom in oil and ate them salted. The texture was outstanding and the flavor delicate, like a homemade noodle but with the specific earthiness of a fungus. “How many people are eating a cauliflower mushroom right now?” I thought.

I felt like jumping in the air like Andy when I spotted that lone, feeble chanterelle in Hell’s Hollow. To reach that first chantie was a hero’s journey, past a path that leads to a dazzling waterfall, down a steep hill, across a stream, and through a tunnel of decaying trees. The air starts to cool down and a trained nose can begin to smell the faint notes of mushrooms in the air. Clusters of chanterelles appear like small towns; they are golden trumpets that politely announce their presence with colorful glee. Oyster mushrooms grow shelf-like on the sides of trees, and chicken of the woods, these endlessly useful and tasty orange half-moons, light up your eyes like a gorgeous sunset. That’s the thing about wild mushrooms — once you see them, you can’t unsee them. After an education in foraging, you’ll be forever scanning your surroundings, trying to manifest treasure.

As I carried back my sack of mushrooms that first time, I thought about that man who woke up in Hell’s Hollow in the night. How must he have felt? Aimless, one would assume. Probably searching for a way out of the darkness. Disoriented, without a clue where he might be in relation to the outside world. Maybe that’s what Hell is. Maybe it’s quite simply feeling lost and alone. The pandemic can feel like that, as though you’re traversing an endless dark wilderness hoping to catch a light in the distance that’ll guide you back to society. But is that a new feeling? Hasn’t it always been that way? Maybe all of life has just been wandering in the dark.

Anyway, I’m glad to be walking through the woods with a purpose.

Danny Palumbo is a comedian and writer living in Los Angeles.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2JUbLZq https://ift.tt/3korg8w

Getty Images

While the rest of the country focused on something other than the forest floor, I started foraging for chanterelles

For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

daveynin/Flickr

A view from the Hell’s Hollow Trail in McConnells Mill State Park, Pennsylvania

When I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible.

Anyway, I’m glad to be walking through the woods with a purpose.

Danny Palumbo is a comedian and writer living in Los Angeles.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2JUbLZq via Blogger https://ift.tt/38Dk0DK

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 4 years

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Shadow Over Seventh Heaven Review, Part I: Last Night I Dreamt I Went to Maljardin Again

Once, April Tennant had been the greatest screen star of all. Even now that this stunning creature was gone, the victim of a hideous accident, her name still cast a magic glow. And nowhere was her haunting spell more alive than within her great walled estate of San Rafael.

It was here that April had lived in her storybook marriage with famed actor Richard Morgan. It was here that her memory was worshipped still. And it was here that lovely young Jenny Summers came as Richard Morgan's new bride--to discover the terror behind the tinsel in this place transformed from a paradise of the living to a hell of the undead.... (inside front cover)

Welcome, fellow Strangers and all others who happen upon this post. This week, I have decided to begin a new series exploring the Gothic novels written by co-creator and first headwriter of Strange Paradise, Ian Martin, under the pen name Joen Arliss. Mostly, the purpose of this series will be to compare the plot and characters of Strange Paradise and those of his novels and what that may indicate about his original intentions for the overarching story of the soap opera.

I got the idea to start this series while writing my review of Episode 26, after the contents of an article referenced in one of the scenes reminded me of the events in this book. On his now-defunct website Maljardin.com, Curt Ladnier covered some of the similarities between “Here Goes the Bride,” the CBS Radio Mystery Theater drama from which this book was adapted, and Strange Paradise, but I wanted to dive deeper and do one of my characteristic overanalyses. So fly with me to the grand southwestern estate of San Rafael and together let’s explore Shadow Over Seventh Heaven--and let me warn you, there will be spoilers for the entire Maljardin arc of SP.

As noted above, Shadow Over Seventh Heaven is an adaptation of a radio drama that Martin wrote for CBS Radio Mystery Theater. CBSRMT is, perhaps unquestionably, Ian Martin’s most famous work. Created by Himan Brown in 1974 and running for 1,399 nightly episodes, Martin wrote a total of 243 (including many adaptations of literary classics) and acted in 255, typically in supporting roles. He continued writing and acting on the series all the way until his death in 1981 at the age of 69. Given my tendency to procrastinate, which sometimes makes it difficult to write just one episode review a week even when I’m not busy, I envy him for being such a prolific writer. I suspect that all the soap scripts he wrote got him into the habit, and he just couldn’t break it.

Even more extraordinary is that he wrote and published five novels during the same period that he worked on CBSRMT. His first was Nightmare’s Nest (1979), an adaptation of the CBSRMT play “The Deathly White Man” (and not the other drama, also by him, of the same name), which is his answer to Jane Eyre and which also has some interesting connections with SP which I plan to explore in another review series. Next came this novel, and then Beloved Victim (1981), adapted from “A Lady Never Loses Her Head,” which I don’t recall having anything noteworthy in common with SP, but I may need to re-read it to make sure. He also wrote two mystery novels, The Shark Bait Affair and The Ladykiller Affair, for the Zebra Mystery Puzzler series, but those are both very rare now and I haven’t yet read either, so I can’t say anything about them. The book Mystery Women: An Encyclopedia of Leading Women Characters in Mystery Fiction does, however, provide some information on their protagonist, Kate Graham, along with short plot summaries. As someone with two trunk novels from the last decade and about fifty pages of a third--which I mostly stopped working on after I started this blog--I also envy him for this. How on Earth did he find the time?

But I digress. Like that of “Here Goes the Bride,” the plot of Shadow Over Seventh Heaven draws heavy inspiration from Daphne du Maurier’s famous Gothic romance Rebecca, but with some major differences in plot and characterization. The novel fleshes out the radio drama some more, adding additional details and plot twists that aren’t present in the original play, which arguably make it more interesting. One gets the impression that he had a lot of story in mind while he penned the original drama, but knew he could only squeeze so much into a 45-minute radio play and so had to leave many of the most interesting details out.

But that’s enough background information. Let’s begin our analysis and see what Ian Martin’s later work can tell us about his original intentions for Strange Paradise.

Introduction

The face is lovely, matchless....

Opening like some gigantic and exotic flower as the camera zooms in...

It fills the screen, flawless, enticing....

The lower lip glistens, pulled away from those perfect teeth, trembling ever so slightly, promising undreamed-of delights for the man brave enough to taste its forbidden fruit....

The skin glows with an inner light....

The eyes beyond the thick fringe of dark eyelashes shimmer with the deep violet of a tropical night....

The pitiless exposé of the camera is defeated, no matter how close it probes in close-up....

This is beauty without blemish....

This is everyman's dream woman--sex symbol of the nation, and most of the world....

This is April Tennant!

Strange to think of her dead, for on the screen she is captured forever in all her vibrancy and stunning beauty....

Impossible to think of her lying, mangled and bleeding on the rocks, while the hungry sea licks out as if to possess her.

Incredible to think of her cold and in the grave. Which she has been for twelve months--or this story never would have begun (p. 5).

The first page of the novel introduces us to April Tennant, this novel’s Rebecca and also its Erica Desmond. Like Rebecca, she is the first wife of the protagonist’s love interest, whose tragic death will cast a shadow over her former estate. Like Erica, she was a famous actress--probably more so than Erica ever was--but the cause of her death is not the same as the alleged cause of Erica’s. In Episode 5 of Strange Paradise, Erica’s grieving husband Jean Paul claims that she died of eclampsia while pregnant with their son, although evidence uncovered by other characters in later episodes leads them to contest that claim. Instead, April’s death resembles that of Huaco, the wife of Jean Paul’s ancestor Jacques Eloi des Mondes who died when she fell from a cliff on Maljardin, Jacques’ island estate.

In this introduction, we also see what will become a theme of the novel: gaze. Not just the male gaze--the obvious POV of the introduction--but, more generally, the viewing of April Tennant almost exclusively through the eyes of other characters, both male and female. We never learn much about her inner life, even as we learn those of Jenny (our protagonist), Richard, and others. April is largely a mystery, a larger-than-life figure of ideal beauty who, in the eyes of the public, is more a legend than she is flesh and blood. It’s the same mystique that surrounds celebrities in real life that often makes other people forget that they, too, are human--if, indeed, that’s what April was. Or is there more to it? I guess we’ll have to find it.

Chapter 1

The first chapter begins with a detailed description of San Rafael--and by detailed, I mean that Ian Martin spends one and a half pages describing its wall, followed by two on the mansion itself. I won’t type out too many passages from this book for copyright reasons--for, unlike Strange Paradise, this book is still under copyright--but I will include some highlights. The wall surrounding the castle “was thick enough at the bottom to withstand any tremor of the California earth...topped by a corona of jagged broken glass and it ran for a mile and three-quarters in a great semicircle away from the rocky Pacific coast and back to it again” (p. 6). On its gate,

The ironwork swept and swirled in great balanced curlicues, and the frame was heavy and studded. The studs held great sheets of blackened steel, heavy enough to withstand a battering ram, blocking any vision of the grounds the wall concealed. And the vertical members of the scrollwork reared high above the frame of the door and the top of the wall in a bristling array of spikes, sharp as swords, arched forward to further discourage any hardy trespasser who might try to climb their height (pp. 6-7).

In case you haven’t already figured it out, Martin loved his purple prose. If you don’t like Byzantine descriptions of architecture, ironwork, clothing, or anything else, you probably shouldn’t read this book or any of Martin’s other novels. (Nightmare’s Nest is far purpler, however, than this one. There’s an entire chapter in there devoted to describing the protagonist’s lush Edwardian finery.) Fortunately for me, I love this kind of thing and will gladly devour description after description of gates covered in iron curlicues. My literary tastes tend toward “more is more” and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

We learn that San Rafael is a reconstruction of an old Spanish mission, commissioned by April and built in part by Richard himself, “who personally took charge of putting in all the glass that fronted on the sea.” The gardens that surround it give it “a riot of color--bougainvillea, hibiscus, passionflowers, trumpet vines--all enhanced and set off against the majesty of rows of carefully spaced Italian cedar, or Lombardy poplar” (pp. 7-8).

Despite all this radiant beauty--and as one might expect for reconstructed ruins from the era of Spanish colonialism--the estate is believed to be cursed, at least by “the superstitious peons who built the walls” (p. 9). (That’s what the book uncharitably describes the Mexican builders--some parts of this book haven’t aged well, as you will see.) Two men died while rebuilding it, followed by April herself around a decade later.

Surprisingly, we learn at the end of this chapter that Richard Morgan’s background differs from that of Jean Paul Desmond. An actor himself, he “was king of the theater, and of East Coast entertainment. Their marriage was a royal one, and it vaulted both of them to new and undreamed-of heights of popularity” (pp. 9-10). It was this popularity that drove them to wall themselves in at San Rafael and use the police and guard dogs to keep rabid fans and paparazzi away--which, ultimately, didn’t work and only led to “a new wave of interest and snooping” (p. 10).

Chapter 2

Here we meet Richard’s sister Lisa, who is...well...quite an interesting character. She’s a beautiful woman with short hair, a deep voice, and--most importantly--an unusual, creepy level of attachment to her brother.

Cersei Lannister Lisa Morgan.

Lisa has just received a phone call from the Philippines where her brother is. The call has left her “literally stunned” (p. 11), which means that the modern slang meaning of “literally” dates back 30+ years longer than I thought. Surprisingly, she isn’t drinking wine to calm her nerves like Cersei above, but that’s her loss.

As she gazes at the ocean to the west, her housekeeper, Conchita Aguilar, enters. Chita (as she is usually called) has not just worked as April’s housekeeper for most of her life, but also "she and her husband, Juan, had quite literally brought up April” (p. 13); as a result, she is fiercely loyal to the family of her deceased mistress. Here is a portrait of her:

Looking at the tiny woman with her bright button eyes, the black Indian hair swept stiffly away from her face, parted in the middle and tidily put away in a tight bun low on the back of her neck, Lisa was surprised at the sudden urge to go and take this familiar person in her arms--or better still have Chita take her in hers.[...]Chita might be tiny, but she was all steel and whipcord (p. 13).

Sound familiar?

Yes, Chita bears a resemblance to our beloved Raxl. They even have a similar background, for Raxl, too, comes from a people indigenous to Mexico, according to Episode 23. Like Raxl, Chita is very old and has a mysterious magnetism that draws some people to her (which, in Raxl’s case, includes me). There are some minor differences--Chita doesn’t worship the Great Serpent, she uses gratuitous Spanish instead of gratuitous French, she has a living husband and grandson--but they are, in most ways, the same character. It’s clear that Ian Martin didn’t want to part with Raxl, and I don’t blame him one bit.

Also, for whatever reason, he was oddly insistent on both of them having a specific hairstyle. If you read the original script for the show’s pilot, you will see that he was almost as specific about Raxl’s hairstyle, mentioning “her hair tightly drawn over her ears to a small bun,” but less detailed about those of the other characters. Just an odd detail that probably bears little significance, but that I noticed.

Lisa tells Chita that Richard is on his way home with a new wife, a young, very wealthy orphan named Jenny Summers whom he met in the Philippines. This angers the ancient housekeeper, who argues that Jenny can never come to San Rafael

Because there is no place for her here--en la casa de La Señora! Everything here is hers--she still lives here, and will always live here. Her perfume is in every room, her pictures are everywhere, every ornament and ashtray and book I keep just the way she last touched it. There is no room for any other wife here! Oh, she will feel it, she will know it, because La Señora would never permit another woman to take her place (p. 16)!

Lisa insists that, despite the risk that Jenny won’t want to live on the estate and despite her equal displeasure about the situation, Chita keep an open mind regarding her and try not to be such a Mrs. Danvers about the situation. (OK, so she doesn’t actually say the last part; that’s just my paraphrase.) She also tries to pressure Chita into helping her take down the mementos of April at Richard’s orders, which she objects to, both for sentimental reasons and because they don’t have time to have the enormous fresco of April that adorns the former chapel. (Symbolism!)

“It was a breathless and yet terrible beauty. For any woman who stood next to it had to be eclipsed” (p. 20).

Yes, you read that right: they rededicated the mission’s former chapel to the silver screen sex goddess April Tennant. After their wedding, Richard had a giant fresco of her painted there in place of its former altar. This is a clear indication that one or more of the people in this household worship April, whether literally or figuratively. More than that, the portrait glows like that of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES, and seems, like Jacques’ portrait, to be alive, the living essence of a dead person. “Most haunting of all was the feeling that this was the woman--that she could not have died, that any moment she would step off the wall, and her silver laughter would fill the house again (p. 20).”

I’m sorry, Jacques. ;)

Coming up next: Jenny arrives at San Rafael and tries to adjust to living on an estate where almost everyone but Richard acts like they hate her.

{ Next: Part II -> }

#gothic fiction #cbs radio mystery theater #ian martin #joen arliss #shadow over seventh heaven #cbsrmt #strange paradise #related media #review #other reviews #ian martin's novels #analysis #gaze #rebecca #speculation on ian martin's original story #symbolism

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freedomartspress · 4 years

Text

Three Poems — Tongo Eisen Martin

Kick Drum Only

All street life to a certain extent starts fair

Sometimes with a spiritual memory even

Predawn soul-clap/ your father dying even

Maybe I’ve pushed the city too far

My sensitivities to landfill districting and minstrel whistles/

White supremacist graffiti on westbound rail guards

-all overcome and reauthored

The garbage is growing voices

Condensed Marxism

modal gangsterism for a warrior-depressive

Underpass in my pocket

because I am a deity

or decent bid on the Panther name

revolutionary violence that chose its own protagonists

or muted stage of genius

A merciful Marxism

Disquieted home life

Or metaphor for relaxing next to a person

Who is relaxing next to a gun

I stare at my father for a few seconds

Then return to my upbringing

Return to the souls of Ohio Black folks

Revolution is damn near pagan at this point

You know what the clown wants? The respect of the ant.

Wants a pen cap full of bullets

Wants to see their ancestors in broad daylight

I am not tired of these rooms; just tired of the world that give them a relativity

My only change of clothes prosecuted

The government has finally learned how to write poems

shoot-outs that briefly align…

that make up a parable

white bodies are paid well, I posit

do white men actually even have leaders?

all white people are white men

white men will only ever be metaphors

all I do is practice, Lord

A rat pictures a river

Can almost taste the racial divide

Can almost roll a family member’s head into a city hall legislative chamber

Knows who in this good book will fly

I have decided not to talk out of anger ever again, Lord

Met my wife at the same time I met new audience members for our pain

We passed each other cigarettes and watched cops win

A city gone uniquely linear

Harlem of the West due a true universe

“I will always remember you in fancy clothes,” my wife said

so here I sit… twisting in silk ideation

My rifle made of tar

My targets made of an honest language

This San Francisco poetry is how God knows that it is me whining

Writing among the lesser-respected wolves

Lesser-observed militarization

Dixie-less prison bookkeeping/I mean the California gray-coats are coming

lynch mob gossip and bourgeois debt collection

I mean, it’s tempting to change professions mid-poem

in a Chicago briefing, a white sergeant saying, “blank slate for all of us after this Black organizer is dead.”

standard academics toasting two-buck wine at the tank parade

bay of nothing, Lord

nuclear cobblestones, gunline athleticism

and the last of the inherited asthma

children given white dolls to play with and fear

facial expressions borrowed from rich people’s shoe strings

I can hear hate

And teach hate

And call tools by people names

And name people dead to themselves

no one getting naturalized except federal agents soon

carving the equator into throats soon

I’m sorry to make you relive all of this, Lord

pre-dawn monarchy

friends putting up politician posters then snorting the remainder of the paste

minstrel scripts shoveled into the walls by their elders

my children sharpening quarters on the city’s edge

For these audiences

I project myself into a ghost like state

For these gangsters, I do the same

every now and then, we take a nervous look east

Sleep becomes Christ

Sleep starts growing a racial identity

do you ever spiral, Lord?

has the gang-age betrayed us?

be patient with my poems, Lord

So much pain

there is a point to crime…

There has to be if race traitors come with it

Lord, is that my revolver in your hand?

Better presidents than these have yawned at cages

Have called us holy slaves

Filled the school libraries with cop documentaries

Baby, I don’t have money for food

I have no present moment at all

I Do Not Know the Spelling of Money

I go to the railroad tracks

And follow them to the station of my enemies

A cobalt-toothed man pitches pennies at my mugshot negative

All over the united states, there are

Toddlers in the rock

I see why everyone out here got in the big cosmic basket

And why blood agreements mean a lot

And why I get shot back at

I understand the psycho-spiritual refusal to write white history or take the glass freeway

White skin tattooed on my right forearm

Ricochet sewage near where I collapsed

into a rat-infested manhood

My new existence as living graffiti

In the kitchen with

a lot of gun cylinders to hack up

House of God in part

No cops in part

My body brings down the Christmas

The new bullets pray over blankets made from old bullets

Pray over the 28th hour’s next beauty mark

Extrajudicial confederate statue restoration

the waist band before the next protest poster

By the way,

Time is not an illusion, your honor

I will return in a few whirlwinds

I will save your desk for last

You are witty, your honor

You’re moving money again, your honor

It is only raining one thing: non-white cops

And prison guard shadows

Reminding me of

Spoiled milk floating on an oil spill

A neighborhood making a lot of fuss over its demise

A new lake for a Black Panther Party

Malcom X’s ballroom jacket slung over my son’s shoulders

Pharmacy doors mid-slide

The figment of village

a noon noose to a new white preacher

Wiretaps in the discount kitchen tile

-All in an abstract painting of a president

Bought slavers some time, didn’t it?

The tantric screeches of military bolts and Election-Tuesday cars

A cold-blooded study in leg irons

Leg irons in tornado shelters

Leg irons inside your body

Proof that some white people have actually fondled nooses

That sundown couples

made their vows of love over

opaque peach plastic

and bolt action audiences

Man, the Medgar Evers-second is definitely my favorite law of science

Fondled news clippings and primitive Methodists

My arm changes imperialisms

Simple policing vs. Structural frenzies

Elementary school script vs. Even whiter white spectrums

Artless bleeding and

the challenge of watching civilians think

“terrible rituals they have around the corner. They let their elders beg for public mercy…beg for settler polity”

“I am going to go ahead and sharpen these kids’ heads into arrows myself and see how much gravy spills out of family crests.”

Modern fans of war

What with their t-shirt poems

And t-shirt guilt

And me, having on the cheapest pair of shoes on the bus,

I have no choice but to read the city walls for signs of my life

The Chicago Prairie Fire

First, I must apologize to the souls of the house

I am wearing the cheek bones of the mask only

Pill bottle, my name is yours

Name tagged on the side of a factory of wrists

Teeth of the mask now

Back of the head of the mask now

New phase of anti-anthropomorphism fending for real faces

Stuck with one of those cultures that believes I chose this family

I am not creative

Just the silliest of the revolutionaries

My blood drying on

my only jacket

just as God got playful

the police state’s psychic middlemen

Evangelizing for the creation of an un-masses

An un-Medgar

Blood of a lamb less racialized

or awesome prison sentence

Good God

Elder-abuse hired for the low

dog eat genius

Right angle made between a point

On a Louisiana plantation

And 5-year old’s rubber ball

3 feet high and falling

like a deportee plane

to complete my interpretation

(of garden variety genocide)

I am small talk

about loving your enemies

A little more realistically

About paper tigers

And also gold…

I need my left hand back

I broke my neck on the piano keys

Found paradise in a fistfight

Maybe I should check into the Cuba line

Watching the universe’s last metronomes

some call Black Jacobins

Just wait…

These religions will start resigning in a decade or two

Some colorfully

Some transactional-ly

In a cotton gothic society

Class betrayal gone glassless/ I mean ironically/ my window started fogging over too

Wondering which Haiti will get me through this winter

Which poem houses souls

Which socialist breakthroughs

Breakthroughs like ten steps back

Then finally stillness

Stillness

Then stillness among families

a John Brown biography takes a bow

I’m up next to introduce Prosser to Monk

I remember childhood

Remember the word “Childhood” being a beginning

Scribbling on an amazing grace

I rented this body from some circumference of slavery

Remember being kicked out of the Midwest

Strange fruit theater

Lithium and circuses

Likeminded stomachs

The ruling class blessing their blank checks with levy foam…

with opioid tea

Sentient dollar bills yelling to each other pocket to pocket

Cello stands in the precinct for accompanying counterrevolutionaries

My mother raised me with a simple pain

A poet loses his mind, you know, like the room has weather

Or first-girlfriend gravity

Police-knock gravity

Mind-game gravity

Or revolution languishing behind

The sugar in my good friend’s mind

“The difference between me and you

Is that the madness

Wants me forever”

A pair of apartments

Defining both my family

And political composure

Books behind my back

Bail money paved into the streets

Playing:

Euphoria

Cliché

Bracing for the medicine’s recoil

Sharing a dirty deli sandwich with my friends

Black Jacobins

Underground topography

Or grandmother’s hands

Psychology of the mask now

Teeth of the mask again

—

Originally from San Francisco, Tongo Eisen-Martin is a movement worker and educator who has organized against mass incarceration and extra-judicial killing of Black people throughout the United States. His latest curriculum on extrajudicial killing of Black people, We Charge Genocide Again, has been used as an educational and organizing tool throughout the country. His book of poems, Someone’s Dead Already was nominated for a California Book Award.

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drunken-drk · 5 years

Text

Horror Tropes

CLASSIC.

black and white. powder puffs. red lipstick. winged eyeliner. white kitten heels. black lace lingerie. icy blue eyes. rain. abandoned cars. skeletons. acid. poison.voyeurism.switchblades. strangling. overcoats. looking over your shoulder. trans-Atlantic accents. private detectives. dinner parties. haunted mansions. cobwebs. perfect blonde curls. kitchen knives. shock. cellars.dust. ghosts. dark alleys. empty streets. horn-rimmed glasses. radiation. zombies. serial murder.suspicion. paranoia. the city. witches. the devil.cannibalism. conspiracies. amulets. abject terror. the American South. the American Northeast. England. analog cameras.

CRYPTID & URBAN LEGEND.

aliens. blinding light. dark woods. driving at night. claw marks. bite marks. men in black.memory loss. dismembered bodies. sewers. flashlights. cell phones. video cameras.cars with tinted windows. unlabeled cassette tapes. bugs. big cities. urban crimes. clowns. something rustling outside your window. glowing light. unsolved mysteries.suburbia.mirrors. the american pacific northwest. the american Midwest. hiking.backpacking.

GOTHIC.

gaslights. corsets. ballrooms. candlelight. mist. starless nights. full moons. cobbled streets. horse-drawn carriages. mysterious strangers. bogs. moors. forests.mountains.castles. velvet.silver. brass. gold. jewels. domino masks. the opera. dangerous romances. tragic romances.violins. roses. lilies. empty graves. crosses. cemeteries. snow. ice. the gallows. crows. milk-white skin. ambiguous illness. fangs. pointed nails. something howling in the night. capes. gloves. top hats. straight razors. lightning. pipe organs. underground caverns. bats. mice. rats. ravens. cats.pearls. attics. talismans. axes.wood. isolation in a room full of people. vampires. werewolves.ghosts. coffins.western Europe. eastern Europe. bones. churches. catacombs. mausoleums. books.stitches.

PARANORMAL.

malevolent spirits. seances. spells. missing bodies. hidden graves. white noise.static.flickering lights. rings of salt. demons. poltergeists. dark histories. old buildings.cold air. wells. urban exploration. a dog barking at unseen things. iconoclasm. black ooze. old photographs. dark bodies of water. crucifixes. priests. possession. exorcisms. dolls.

SLASHER.

bloodbaths. massacres. wanton nudity. newspapers. leather jackets. Letterman jackets. converse sneakers. obscured faces. social unrest. bonfires. lakes. babysitters. high school. lockers. dead leaves in the fall. jack-o’-lanterns. passing shadows. outdated television sets.nightmares. psychiatrists. hospitals. unstoppable forces. gunfire. police. landline telephones. improvised weapons. Halloween. secrets. revelations. cut wires. character masks. scrunchies. wild curls. jeering children. parties. fire. swearing. revulsion. California. the american Midwest. ambulances.

THRILLER.

(thank you so much for the tag, @weaveroftruth !

not sure who’s been tagged already but ! @nuveyyy @muddled-mooncat @unrepentant-king @blackened-moon-child )

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ng-ffxiv · 5 years

Text

Nora’s Horror Aesthetic

CLASSIC.

black and white. powder puffs. red lipstick. winged eyeliner. white kitten heels. black lace lingerie. icy blue eyes. rain. abandoned cars. skeletons. acid. poison. voyeurism. switchblades. strangling. overcoats. looking over your shoulder. trans-Atlantic accents. private detectives. dinner parties. haunted mansions. cobwebs. perfect blonde curls. kitchen knives. shock. cellars. dust. ghosts. dark alleys. empty streets. horn-rimmed glasses. radiation. zombies. serial murder. suspicion. paranoia. the city. witches. the devil. cannibalism. conspiracies. amulets. abject terror. the american south. the american northeast. england. analog cameras.

CRYPTID & URBAN LEGEND.

GOTHIC.

gaslights. corsets. ballrooms. candlelight. mist. starless nights. full moons. cobbled streets. horse-drawn carriages. mysterious strangers. bogs. moors. forests. mountains. castles. velvet. silver. brass. gold. jewels. domino masks. the opera. dangerous romances. tragic romances. violins. roses. lilies. empty graves. crosses. cemeteries. snow. ice. the gallows. crows. milk-white skin. ambiguous illness. fangs. pointed nails. something howling in the night. capes. gloves. top hats. straight razors. lightning. pipe organs. underground caverns. bats. mice. rats. ravens. cats. pearls. attics. talismans. axes. wood. isolation in a room full of people. vampires. werewolves. ghosts. coffins. western europe. eastern europe. bones. churches. catacombs. mausoleums. books. stitches.

PARANORMAL.

SLASHER.

THRILLER.

daylight. fluorescent lighting. morgues. unwavering eye contact. tension. lit rooms. empty rooms. killer in plain sight. a dog digging in the newly-planted flower bed. steely gazes. paperwork. anagrams. codes. convicted killers. missing persons. law enforcement. federal agents. small towns. suspicion. paranoia. subdued terror. dimly-lit parking lots. a noise in the distance. Tagged by: @the-ruby-rogue - thank you! Tagging: @miqo-vynnie, @miqojak, @resistance-ranger, @jurien-ashur - and anyone who wants to and hasn't already (feel free to say I tagged you)!

#tagged

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miqo-vynnie · 5 years

Text

Horror Aesthetics - Vynnie

CLASSIC.

black and white. powder puffs. red lipstick. winged eyeliner. white kitten heels. black lace lingerie. icy blue eyes. rain. abandoned cars. skeletons. acid. poison. voyeurism. switchblades. strangling. overcoats. looking over your shoulder. trans-Atlantic accents. private detectives. dinner parties. haunted mansions. cobwebs.perfect blonde curls. kitchen knives. shock. cellars. dust. ghosts. dark alleys. empty streets. horn-rimmed glasses. radiation. zombies. serial murder. suspicion.paranoia. the city. witches. the devil. cannibalism. conspiracies. amulets. abject terror. the American South. the American Northeast. England. analog cameras.

CRYPTID & URBAN LEGEND.

GOTHIC.

gaslights. corsets. ballrooms. candlelight. mist. starless nights. full moons. cobbled streets. horse-drawn carriages. mysterious strangers. bogs. moors. forests. mountains.castles. velvet. silver. brass. gold. jewels. domino masks. the opera. dangerous romances. tragic romances. violins. roses. lilies. empty graves. crosses. cemeteries. snow. ice. the gallows. crows. milk-white skin. ambiguous illness. fangs. pointed nails. something howling in the night. capes. gloves. top hats. straight razors. lightning. pipe organs. underground caverns. bats. mice. rats. ravens. cats. pearls. attics. talismans. axes. wood. isolation in a room full of people. vampires. werewolves. ghosts. coffins. western Europe.eastern Europe. bones. churches. catacombs. mausoleums. books. stitches.

PARANORMAL.

malevolent spirits. seances. spells. missing bodies. hidden graves. white noise.static.flickering lights. rings of salt. demons. poltergeists. dark histories. old buildings. cold air. wells. urban exploration. a dog barking at unseen things. iconoclasm. black ooze. old photographs. dark bodies of water. crucifixes. priests. possession. exorcisms. dolls.

SLASHER.

bloodbaths. massacres. wanton nudity. newspapers. leather jackets. Letterman jackets. converse sneakers. obscured faces. social unrest. bonfires. lakes. babysitters. high school. lockers. dead leaves in the fall. jack-o’-lanterns. passing shadows. outdated television sets. nightmares. psychiatrists. hospitals. unstoppable forces. gunfire. police. landline telephones. improvised weapons.Halloween. secrets. revelations. cut wires. character masks. scrunchies. wild curls. jeering children. parties. fire. swearing. revulsion. California. the american Midwest. ambulances.

THRILLER.

Tagged by: @yululu-and-co

Tagging: @miqojak @kerrath @kublai-kha @balmung-squid @weaveroftruth Sorry if you’ve already done this one! I’m late to the party. But this is also for anyone that wants to do this!!

#vynnie #aesthetic #prompt

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maggyme13 · 6 years

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A Snake´s Pet (1/?)

Waking up in a dark room, you didn’t know how and why you got there. That changed when a door opened, and a tall figure stood in front of you.

“Who are you? And Why am I here?”, you asked.

“I am Loki. And you were chosen to bear my heirs.”, the man answered with a cold voice.

_____

AN: This story resulted out of two requests I got and combined. I hope you like it ^^

It is set after Thor: TDW, Thor is living on earth with Jane and hadn’t been back to Asgard since he brought Loki there.

Wordcount: around 3700 (damn that turned out long)

Warnings: angst, mentioning of kidnapping, abo-dynamics,asshole Loki

Masterlist

You didn’t know how you had ended up in this situation. Because one second you had been on your way home from work and the other you suddenly sat in this dark and cold room. All your belongings (minus the clothing on your body) gone, leaving you without no way to call for help or defend yourself with. Not that you would be able to do so, because the only thing you knew was what you had seen on TV and in movies. At least you knew to aim for the crown-jewels.

If my captors have any.

Your eyes had slowly gotten used to the darkness and you were at least able to guess the outlines of the room you were in and decided to take a closer look.

I bet I am going to break my little toe.

Only a few minutes later, you had finished your look round. The room was barely three times three metres big with a metal door on one side and some kind of blanked on the other. Not knowing what else to do, you decided to sit down on that blanked to think.

Are there cameras in here? No- then would there be some blinking lights, right? Where the FUCK am I goddammit.

Letting yourself slide down the wall, you let out a groan and your head rested on the top of your knees and you tried for everything that was precious to you to find a reason for a reason why you where where you were. But you couldn’t find any.

You were what could be a considered a grey mouse, people usually didn’t notice you and you weren’t dressing to impress or catch the interest of others. You worked as a cashier at a little local Mexican supermarket in a California (Oakland to be exact) and were born a half-blood, with your mother being an Omega and your father an Nonblood. Both of them died when you had been young and you had ended up living with your dead mother´s parents, who died when you had been only 18 years-old.

They had left you some money you used to pay the rent and study bills, though it wasn’t enough for you to live alone on it and so you had found the job with Mr and Mrs Alvarez, for minimum wage and one grocery shopping a week for free (for 40 dollars). You liked the old couple and they soon considered you somewhat family and had even introduced you to their son, who was the president of a Motorcycle Club.

Was I captured because of him?

If that had been some gang shit you hoped he would stay loyal to his promise and have your back.

I really could need your help now!

But of one thing you were pretty much certain: you being a half-blood couldn’t be the reason for you being there. You had neither presented as an Omega or Beta (very rarely your kind presented as an Alpha) nor did you have shown any sign that made you seen as one. Aside from slightly increased stamina and strength (and part of your looks) you had inherited NOTHING from your mother. Not that you wanted it otherwise, you liked being able to make your own decisions and not to turn into a horny breeding-machine every other time, ready to sleep with any Alpha that was close and interested in you.

I can choose who I let into my bed. Damn I can’t imagine losing my virginity to just anyone.

Cold began to creep into your bones and you did the only logical thing, rolling yourself into a burrito and tried not to freak out. Knowing you couldn’t to in this situation, you tried to catch some sleep.

Who knows when and if I can get any sleep later. Can´t do anything except freezing at the moment.

You must have dozen off, because the next thing you knew was a light blending you from the (former) closed door. Looking up, you realized someone was standing in the open door. He (or she) was tall and well trained, and even though you couldn’t see the persons eyes, you could feel them boring into you. A cold shiver ran up and down your spine with every passing second, your heartbeat increased, and you had to swallow a lump before you were able to speak.

“Who- who are you?”, you whispered, fear and panic latched into your voice.

“I am Loki and you had been chosen to bear me heirs.”, the shadow answered in a cold and reserved voice.

What?

“I-I don’t understand-“, you mumbled more to yourself than him.

“Of course not.”, he sighted like it was to be expected, like he thought you would be stupid, “You were chosen to be my Mate, so I may breed you and get heirs to follow on the throne.”

Mate- Breeding- But-

“But-“, you wanted to tell him they must have the wrong person, but a deep angry growl from the door shut you up.

He is an Alpha. A strong one-

“Did no one ever taught you to NOT speak back to an Alpha, Omega? Especially not to the one that is to become your Mate.”, he growled back.

“I am no Omega.”

“Of course not, that would have been to easy.”, he huffed under his breath and kept staring at you, “Then you have to learn how to be one. A perfect one. And you better learn fast!”

What? ´Learn to be an Omega´, does that mean- what is he going to do?

“I am tired of waiting.”, you hear him say, but you were in to much shock to react what caused the Alpha to growl at you again. But you still couldn’t move. Suddenly he stood in front of you, his face contorted in anger. His chest heaving and you feared he would hurt you- bad.

When did he get here? How-

“I said: I am tired of waiting. Are you going to stand up, or do I need to make you, Omega?”, his voice and eyes were so dark your blood ran cold and legs reacted on your own: within a second you stood in front of the Alpha, your back pressed against the cold wall, your eyes widened.

“Thought that much. I hope I don’t need to repeat myself again, do I?”

He hadn’t really finished the sentence, when you already were shaking your head to let him known there was no need to.

“Good. You will show me respect and only look at me or the floor, but under no circumstances at anybody else. Dou you understand?”

YES.

You nodded.

“Come and stay close behind me.”, he ordered at the same time as he turned around and left the room. Quickly, you followed behind the Alpha: Head hanging low and your arms clutched around your own midsection in a protecting and reassuring manor. Your eyes cast on his heels, so you wouldn’t lose the man out of your sight. The floor was made out of white and golden marble, and the walls must be tall, for you heard your steps echoed through them.

I bet this would be what Asgards floors must look like- wait- Asgard- Loki- I AM ON ASGARD! But whyyyyyyy?!

Wonder and new panic settled in your stomach and head and you once again tried to figure out what that all could mean.

“Omega!”, the god and Alpha in front of you growled, and you fastened your steps, only to notice that he had stopped in front of a big door or gate that was guarded by soldiers on either side, though you only saw their boots.

The moment the door opened, the Alpha grabbed your wrist to guide you inside and though it wasn´t so strong it hurt you, you flinched back at the first second. The grip alone gave you an imagine on how strong he really was.

I really won´t stay a chance. I am totally at his mercy…

“We are now in the royal wing. Not that you will ever see it again, for you are not allowed to and will not leave my chambers!”, he told you ,”You may look up now, for here won´t be anyone else than us.”

Slowly you did as he had told you, glad that you would be able to walk normal again. Though you knew it would be tense and probably hurt in the morning, and it already had cramped up, making you hiss in displeasure.

Not wanting to think about what could happen next, you let your eyes wander and awed at what you saw. The floor was made of dark wood with golden inlays, the high ceilings and designs reminded you of modern gothic. Huge windows bathed the halls with lights and the ceiling it self was painted to look like a real sky.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work for long. While the Alpha walked you through halls and up stairs until he stopped in front of a black and silver door you assumed would lead to his chambers.

Your breathing hitched your legs became weak, you felt like a panic attack was about to roll over you and you pleaded with your body to not faint.

On its own accord the door swung open and the Alpha pushed you inside. Wasn´t it for his grip you would have fallen over from the sudden movement.

Silver and green. That was the first thing your brain and eyes registered, before you made out furniture and the basic layout of this apartment.

Looks like a damn suit of a seven-star hotel.

You stood in the middle of what could be considered a working area with a long table that was littered with books, feathers, scrolls and so on. Behind that, you noticed a living area with chairs, a table, bookshelves and other things. On the right of there was an alcove with a huge bed in it. Left to the living area were two doors, one opening up to a bath and the other to what you assumed would be a walk-in closet. The whole backwall was one huge windowfront that gave access to a balcony.

At least I can try and keep distance between us once in a while. Maybe I can lock the bath-

“You are allowed to roam the room on your own, though do not touch my stuff without permission. You will do as I say, when I say it. Now clean yourself up Omega, you reek of dungeon.”, with that he grabbed a book and disappeared onto the balcony.

____

To your surprise was the bath already prepared and steaming. The tube itself was big enough that four people would comfortable fit into it. It had the perfect temperature for you to just relax for a while and forget where you were. Your own apartment unfortunately only had a shower, so this was the first time in weeks that you could take a bath (last time you relaxed in a whirlpool of an waterpark a few months back).

You grabbed the soap laying next to the bathing tube, you began to clean up while trying to make sense of the whole situation.

That all doesn’t make sense- Why did they bring me here? Why me? Why no Omega or other Wolfblood? Don´t they want risk their safety? Of course not. He is dangerous, and Omegas are rare. I am just the next best thing. Though I am sure I am not even that. Maybe there was just an opportunity and they took it.

You had just cleansed your hair, when you felt eyes burn into your back (for you had your back turned towards the door), and you knew the Alpha was standing there.

“Did I take to long, Alpha?”, you asked, your voice barely louder than a whisper, fearing his reaction.

“Are you clean?”

“Yes.”

“Then get dressed. Dinner was served, and I am hungry.”

“Yes Alpha.”, you answered before reaching for a towel to get dry. Standing up and turning around, you imagined the man still standing behind you, his eyes roaming over your body- over the body that was now his to use as he pleased for you wouldn’t be able to stop him. But you were mistaken; turning around there was no one standing and relieved rushed through your veins. It was short lived though, the second you wanted to reach for your clothing to get dressed you noticed it gone.

Shit

“Loki- Alpha?”, you called out, hoping you wouldn’t anger him like that.

“What?”, he snapped back.

“Is-is- Is there anything for me to wear? M-my clothes are gone.”

“There is a dress in the dressing room I think will suit you well. Now hurry up, I don’t like to be kept waiting!”

____

The room you entered was twice as big as the bath and filled to the brim with clothes. Shirts, trousers any kind of male clothing you could imagined was there. And that was were the problem laid: the only clothing there for you, were maybe ten dresses, no trousers, no underwear nothing. And they all were short. You barely wore dresses and if you did, only those reaching your knees and with a pair of shorts beneath. Green, silver and black were the ruling colours. The dress that the Alpha had chose for you was of a dark green colour and reminded you of a (longer) version of a baby-doll negligee. Like the undergarment, the top of the dress seemed to be slightly see-through. The cloth was soft on your skin and the dress itself fitted like a second skin, without feeling uncomfortable. Like you feared, the top was indeed see-through, only good thing was that it was less opaque than you first feared. Only one who knew the fabric of the top was that thin, would be able to make out what laid hidden beneath it, somehow you knew, the Alpha was well informed about that fact.

Pulling your wet hair back, you made your way towards the main room where you knew the Alpha was waiting for you, knowing there would was only the thin dress between him and your body.

With every step you felt more uncomfortable in your skin and you felt like fainting any moment, though you prayed you wouldn’t. Who knows, what the man that attacked and destroyed Manhattan would do to you. Conscious you would at least be able to say no- even though you knew it probably wouldn’t do much.

Arms hugging your own body to give yourself some comfort, you made your way towards the waiting Alpha. He was sitting at a table near the windows, his gaze roaming over your body, making you even more uncomfortable. His eyes lingered on your chest and his eyes grew darker and began glimmering.

He knows I am naked beneath this.

“I see you found the dress I chose for you to wear. I have to admit- it suits you.”, he smiled, motioning for you to take a seat opposite to him. Averting your eyes, you sat down, your hands fumbling in your lap.

“I must admit. Odin chose a pretty Mate for me. Pretty for an unpresented half-blood that is. I would prefer a pure-blood Omega, but it looks like I have to make do.”, he appraised you while insulting you at the same time. His green eyes were almost black, and you were sure it was over anger of not becoming what he wished to.

“Sorry.”, you mumbled, his eyes keeping burning into you, while another growl left his throat.

“Eat. For I become tired and want to rest.”

___

As soon as the male was finished he stood up and motioned for you to do so as well, his eyes and posture telling you there was no room for an argument.

Your heartbeat increased again, and you dreaded what you knew would come now. You were sure he would start breeding with you and there was nothing you could do against it.

On shaking legs, you stepped closer to him, supressing to cry the tension your were feeling away. The air around him felt a colder than the rest of the room and shivers went up and down your spine; the cold making your nipples harden, making them very visible through the thin fabric.

Stepping behind you, the Alpha lowered his head to take a whiff of your scent. One of his hands rested on your hip, the other on your shoulder (very very close to your throat) snaked around your body in the front, making his forearm rest in the valley of your breasts. His arms pressed you against his chest, and the rumbles that left his body made yours vibrate as well. He sounded satisfied.

“You smell better than I thought you would. Devine. Of *sniff* flowers and berries, very delicate. To bad you will never be in heat, for I wonder how you would smell then. I am glad you don’t stink like half-bloods and Nonbloods usually do. *sniff*”, his nose moved over the area where the Mating-mark of half- and pure-bloods would be, his teeth scraping over your skin and you were sure he would mark you right then and there.

His laughter was dark, and your heartbeat stopped.

“I won´t mark you- yet.”, he chuckled against your neck and his hand moved from your shoulder to your jaw, holding your head in place.

“You fear me.”, he whispered against your skin, ”You are afraid of I can do to you. What I will do to you. I can smell it. Taste it on your skin. You are right to feel this way. I can do things you can´t and do not want to imagine. But if you do as I say, you will not need to fear too see those happening; for if you bear heirs, I will treat you as well as any good pet wished to be treated. I say get up, you will. If I tell you to sleep, you will sleep and if I tell you to undress, you will do as told. Like any good Omega would.”

“Yes, Alpha.”, you whispered your answer and you felt his other hand moving over your stomach, your legs towards your inner thighs. Your muscles tensed under this unwanted and unknown feeling. His hands rested on top of the fabric and you knew it was only a question of time when he would make his way beneath it and onto your skin.

“I wonder if your skin is really as soft as it feels through your dress.”, he groaned against your neck, and another shiver went up your spine, “You will undress and lay down in the bed while I will take a bath on my own. Don´t fret, I won’t be gone for long.”

After another lick over your skin he left for the bath, already stripping of his clothing. The moment he stepped into the bathroom, you turned towards the bed and began walking.

Maybe I could not do as told. Who am I kidding- he will just rip the dress apart and be angry for defying him.

Not wanting to anger him on your first evening with him, you stripped down the thin dress and hurried to get under the blankets. They were made of silk and fell smoothly around your naked body. Leaving nothing for the man’s imagination. You laid down furthest away from the bath and turned your back towards it. Soon silent sobs shook your body. Though you supressed them quick, not wanting to give the man any satisfaction to pull out of your fear.

Soft steps alerted you to the approaching Alpha and you braced yourself for what was coming. The mattress dipped behind you and your muscles tensed again for a second.

“I see you took my warning to heart and did as you told. Good.”, he rumbled proudly.

One of his hands moving from the back of your head, over your sides to your ass and then towards your thighs. Carefully not to touch any area that would be considered not proper or sexual.

He is playing with me

“What a well-behaved little Omega I have laying in my bed. Let´s see if it stays like that.”, he chuckled darkly, “Why don’t you come closer to your Alpha? I promise I won´t bite- not too hard at least.”

Taking in a deep breath, you scooted closer to the man behind you, until your ass touched his midsection, with only the thin fabric between the two of you.

At once, his arm snaked around your midsection, pulling your closer to him. So close in fact that you felt his member pressed against your ass and to your relieve: it was soft.

“You thought I would start breeding you today, weren’t you? Though it is your luck you are not ready to receive yet. But you will be- soon. So rest, for when you are you will need all the strength and endurance your weak body has.”

Part 2

AN 2.0: SOOOOOOOOOO what do you all think about this new story (idea)?

I am sorry if I missed warnings. PLEASE tell me so I can change that!

Please let me know and as always thanks for reading and please feel free to comment, like and reblog.

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