Photo reblogged from Life is just pain and piss. with 682 notes
A cry in the darkness
A howl of despite
A wolf’s lone starkness
In the pale moon’s light
Piercing the black
With an ancient might
Like a thundercrack
In the lap of the night
Source: death-and-necromancy
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I built a fortress formed of words:
Four walls reached endless up and down.
Hell yawned at its base and heaven formed its crown…
~Christopher Courtley
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Bloodbath →
Some who have committed murder have spoken of the thrill of the kill—the ultimate rush. But you haven’t truly lived until you’ve had a man’s warm blood sliding all over your naked body. Oh, I drank it too—as much as I could stomach, for which reason the papers have named me the Vampire Murderess—but in truth, it was not so much the thought of drinking the blood as wallowing in it that occupied my disturbed imagination.
I wanted it all over me, even inside of me—filling me, covering me, erasing me—I would have swam in it if I could have amassed so large an amount at once. There were countless times that I would lie awake in bed at night, hearing the screams of my victims in my head, imagining myself drowning in a sea of blood. Then as I sank into that ocean of deepest red I drifted off into dreamless sleep and thereby partook of the oblivion I had brought to so many others. We became one in the absense of everything, my victims and I, in that unholy communion….
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The Briar Rose
By Christopher Courtley
Old Father Time will tell this tale again
And yet again in his senility:
Brave knights and princes ever rise and fall.
But in my dreams the story changes when
I hold you in my arms triumphantly
Beyond the high enchanted briar-wall
That spells eternal winter on your lair
With claws that catch your champions and rend
Your would-be conquerors, and hold them fast,
Like bone-white twigs entangled in your hair.
Against such charms, what armour can defend?
I strip myself, and naked of the past
Advance upon your bower without fear
For I am one with every fool who keeps
His faith in dreams, whose passing no one mourns
Because he walks alone, year after year
Into the wild wood where Beauty sleeps,
To die a hundred times upon her thorns.
Copyright 2011 by Christopher Courtley. All Rights Reserved.
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Witch Hunt
By Christopher Courtley
The groaning of the oaken doors
Announce my swift-approaching death
On feet that pound these hallowed floors
I cling to with abated breath.
I’ll find no sanctuary here
From this unholy war they wage.
I try to calm my growing fear
As I endure their shouts of rage.
The angry mob is led by one
Whose daughter lately did succumb
To fever, and by one whose son
By means unknown was stricken dumb.
They will not hear my arguments—
The preacher looks on with a sneer
As I protest my innocence;
He says my guilt is all too clear.
The mob now having found their witch
Beseech of him a remedy;
He tells them they must smear with pitch
My body and put flame to me.
They seize me then, with irons bind
My wrists, and then my dress they tear
And chaining fast my hands behind
My back, proceed to strip me bare.
Men force me down between the pews
And each in turn does what he will.
They yank my hair, my breasts they bruise,
Till every one has had his fill.
Then gagged that I may cast no spell,
With prayers that their Lord may save
My soul from all the pains of hell,
They send me to my fiery grave.
§
But now on Hallows Eve a sign
Against the waning gibbous moon,
A scudding shadow shaped like mine
Foretells my bloody vengeance soon
To fall on those who did me wrong!
The preacher leads his flock into
The chapel, thinking himself strong
In Christ—as if I cannot do
What I have come to do within
That desecrated church where he
Stood o’er me with a leering grin
While twelve men had their way with me—
Yet now the groaning oaken doors
Swing open, letting in the night
As shadows sweep across the floors
Within the fading candlelight.
The flames burn blue and then go out—
The faithful huddle close in fear—
For now they see the ghost of doubt
Upon the preacher’s face appear!
But loudly he begins to pray
To God and all His angels, as
If they will intervene to stay
My righteous hand, which never has
In life or death committed sins
So black as his. But still unbound,
My shadow in the darkness spins
A cloak of fallen leaves around
Its pitch-soaked form—and now they run—
The guilty twelve beg God to save
Their lives as I hunt down each one
And send him swiftly to his grave.
§
The preacher’s wily prey, and fast
But I am wilier and faster—
Yet ne’er should I have left for last
This thirteenth morsel for the Master!
My vengeful spate must end at morn
And now I fear he will escape
My wrath, and I will be forsworn—
For with hell’s fiends that long to rape
His soul for all eternity
I bartered for my brief return
Its sure and swift delivery.
Which failing, my poor shade will burn
Forever in the lake of fire!
But then at last I see him—lo!
The object of my dark desire
In the dawn’s first feeble glow!
Still cowering on hallowed ground—
How foolishly he clings to faith!
But sensing now that he’s been found,
He turns to flee my fearsome wraith.
I overtake him quickly, shed
His blood as he repents his deeds
But without mercy are the dead
And now the earth on which he bleeds
Begins to quake and then to rock,
And then yawns wide to swallow him—
And by the crowing of the cock
I know that I must follow him.
But looking my last on the sky
I see that angels ride the wind!
They’ve come to bear my soul on high
Which ere this night had barely sinned!
Copyright 2012 by Christopher Courtley. All Rights Reserved.
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Love is the only game worth playing
That can’t be won
The end game’s all about staying
When playing’s no longer fun
And love’s final surrender
Is the great game ender
So before this game is over and done
Assuming that you don’t just cut and run
You better listen to what I’m saying:
Time comes when you’ve got to choose
And then if you’re still playing
My love you’ll lose.
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I was once like you. I believed that love, like everything, dies. After all, that’s what my elders taught me, so it should come as no surprise. But then I cut their school of thought and dropped out of their college of lies. Their words rang false, their voices were hollow. There weren’t any stars in their eyes. Yet they’ll speak of broken dreams as if they once had dared to dream like you. They’ll try to tell you you’re no better; that there’s nothing you can do. They’ll tell you nothing ever changes, and that nothing’s ever new. They’ll tell you what you think you have is too good to be true. They’ll tell you to love yourself because no one else ever will. But they don’t know love at all. To them it’s a game, or a crutch, or a pill. It seems absurdly simple and maybe silly to say, but love is simply what you gain by loving every day. And love is a thing that’s only gained by giving it away. So don’t hold on to it, don’t cling to it, and don’t beg it to stay. If you never love, how can you ever make love? But you must love truly. You can’t ever fake love. You can’t fool yourself, so what makes you think you can fool the world? Step out into love’s battlefield with your white flag unfurled. Love is waiting for you there. What do you think it’s for? Simply love. Love truly. There is nothing more.
Copyright 2012 by Christopher Courtley. All Rights Reserved.
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