Red Circle Books

Man Ray ~ La chevelure, 1929, per Vogue.

#ManRay #Surrealism #Photography

Part IV: Undertow Truth

I found the coat in a thrift shop last week. It was mine. Mine. Years ago, a gift I gave him. I’d worn it home after the last fuck. The scent? Not his. Mine. I wasn’t haunted — I was haunting. I drowned in myself. And liked it.

Part III: Skin Memory

Now I carry the bottle in my purse like mace. I touch strangers’ coats, hoping it will hit again. Every whiff is a tiny death, a rebirth. Obsession is just love wearing sharper heels. I don’t want him back. I want the ghost he left on me.

Part II: Ritual Soak

I followed him. Not for him — for it. That note of him spiraled behind my sternum like steam. Back home, I found the same scent online. Bought it. Sprayed it on my pillow. Masturbated. Prayed. Whispered his name into the fabric.

#EroticMicroFiction

Part I: Ghost Trigger

It started in the subway — wool brushing my hand, then the scent: cedar, black pepper, and wet skin. His cologne, exact. My lungs stalled. I stood still, eyes shut, breathing it in like sacrament. Desire doesn’t die — it distills.

Dark Night 🖤🔥🖤

Still from Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome, a short film by Kenneth Anger from 1954.

The film takes the name "Pleasure Dome" from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's atmospheric poem 'Kubla Khan'. It reflects Anger's deep interest in Thelema, the philosophy of Aleister Crowley.

#KennethAnger #Thelema

IV.

In the spiral pause of climax,
we heard the aeons gasp.

The Moon turned its face,
but the Sun watched,
hungry.

When we were done,
the walls dripped gold
and forgot
our names.

III.

She opened like a grimoire,
moaning footnotes in Enochian.

My hands—mudras of desecration—
rewrote her margins
with spit and spell.

The lamp flickered once—
then obeyed.

II.

I licked the ash from her mantra,
tongue fluent in ruin.

The veil thinned where her nails sank—
there, in the ache,
the ouroboros curled,
grinning.

She asked if I believed in sin.
I said only when I’m doing it right.

#poem #poetry

I.

She bit the sigil into my shoulder,
called it prayer.

Between thrusts, I saw Saturn blink—
alchemy isn’t gentle.

We spilled the elixir,
spoke the taboo aloud,
and laughed
as the stars begged
to be unmade.

American Contemporary artist Hera Kim

King of Ghosts, 2016
(Mixed media on canvas)

#HeraKim #ContemporaryArt

At the edge of all endings,
we came as one unnameable god—
trembling, laughing, undone.
No altar left unlicked,
no self left intact.
We didn’t transcend.
We corrupted heaven
until it begged to join us.

He pulled breath from my womb
like a thief stealing fire,
each thrust a heresy,
each gasp a gospel.
We crowned ourselves with ash and venom—
holy filth, divine profanity—
and called it liberation.

We drank each other backwards—
tongues spelling sigils in reverse.
My moan shattered aether;
his laugh stitched it new.
Kali watched, amused,
as we rewrote the laws of motion
with sweat and sacrilege.

#poem #poetry

I rode him past the veil—
his breath a mantra, mine a hex.
Planets spun like prayer wheels
while our spines cracked open
to pour the cosmos out.
At climax, we saw—
the void isn't empty.
It's wet.
And whispering.

I kissed the rot beneath your altar
and found a mouth of roses.
Your filth, my perfume —
I licked the shadow clean
until the veil spat stars.
Salvation came not robed,
but slick with grin,
whispering:
God hides in the gutters too.

#Poem #Poetry

Part IV: Thirteenth Chime

She returned, veiled in smoke and carrying a jar of my own shadow. “You left this,” she said. I touched it — my reflection hiccupped, then smiled. I was the fig, the bite, the absence. I was time’s undoing and its favorite meal. And oh, I was finally full.

Part III: The Split

The world cracked — not broke, bifurcated. Half of me went up, learned birdsong and dreamt of marionettes. The other half sank, found teeth in soil, and made love to mirrors that could bleed. Between them, I hovered, the hinge, the prayer neither side remembered uttering.

Part II: The Hourless Room

I followed her through a door painted on air. Inside, there were no clocks — only ticking hearts, naked and glass-blown, swinging from ceiling vines. One beat in sync with mine. She kissed me then. My mouth filled with winter. She whispered, “Now you’re divisible.”

#EroticMicroFiction Part I: Clockmilk

I taste time. Not metaphor — actual time. It drips from the spine of the clockmaker’s daughter, whose breath tastes like cardamom and cathedral dust. She fed me a thimble of it once, warm and lunar, and for thirteen seconds, I remembered being unborn.

YouTube video by Kaleidoscope3eyes Sex on Spirituality

youtu.be/2k1yj8h0oKo?...

I tilted my chin back, throat bared to the heat, as if offering up a prayer the water could read. My hands moved slow, reverent — palming flesh like scripture, rewriting shame into song. The drain swallowed the lather, but not the memory. I stepped out dripping, not washed — reborn.

I leaned into the spray, hips shifting with the rhythm of the rinse — part baptism, part betrayal. Each droplet a fingertip, each breath a dare. The mirror fogged, but I saw myself clearer than ever: unbrushed, undone, divine. Clean skin, filthy mind, holy ache.

The shampoo spilled thick and slow into my palm — golden, viscous, indecent. I lathered it through my hair, fingers slipping over scalp like a stranger learning me by heart. The water ran clean, but I stayed dirty with want. Some rinses don’t purify — they awaken.

Dusk slipped between my thighs like memory — warm, uninvited, impossible to ignore. Outside, a siren wailed and vanished, a ghost with better timing than I’ve ever had. I exhaled. Not in relief, but in release.

Desire, I realized, isn’t always hungry. Sometimes, it just wants to be believed.

The hum of the city softened, but that light stayed — watchful, complicit. I shifted once, deliberately, the sheet falling just so. It wasn’t performance. It was confession. In the half-lit hush, I let my body mean what it meant. Not for him. For the mirror inside the dark.

I turned off the light but didn’t close the blinds. The neighbor’s window glowed across the dark like a slow inhale, one curtain drawn, one askew. I lay still, bare under the weight of maybe. Some nights, the ache isn’t for touch — it’s for being seen and not flinching.

The supernal Father moans in fur —
Chokmah in heat, rutting raw with void.
He spills constellations down her throat
as She laughs like Kali in a blood-wet mirror.
Wisdom licks its own leash.
Come —
unclothe your shame,
and ride the beast that dreams you.

#Poem #Poetry

divine logic grinding in a lion’s jaw —
slick with wine and thunder.
His seed spells spiral into flesh —
Qabalistic graffiti on a temple wall
where wisdom fucks the void.
Who dares translate what burns?

#Poem #Poetry