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Olivia Kent Nov 2013
The witch finder general he came to seek them out.
His mistake when innocent witches.
The innocent ones his soul did take.
Dunked Nanna in the ducking pool.
Dragged aunt to Manning Tree.

Wanted to started a mega pyre for the likes of thee and me.
In archaic land of treachery in the land of treason.
Sweet virgins crucified with no justified reason.
Mother turned the milk sour.
Daddy was a warlock.
Brother was magic man.
Kept his grimoire by his bed.
Family of innocence.
Witches innocent,
Spitting fire now deceased after the flames.
Wanted the witch finder's mortal remains.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Mesmed Jausa  May 2015
grimoire
Mesmed Jausa May 2015
Divisible only by degrees of filth

The hated cohabiting the trash bin, the beloved just as broken (seperate and unequal)

Tie a noose for yourself with string theory, multiple universes just mean multiple graves
me-mow Jan 2015
shaman of new mexico, the warrior which resides in myself longs to
know what you know.
the desert may tame the wildest of hearts- or it can manifest
the wildest of starts.{it's really all the same}

witch doctor- shrunken heads,
the garden will tread
upon you in the evening
all starry lit skies +burdensome cries
the garden shall tread upon your soul

bearing the sweetest fruits, ******* explosions
bittersweet remedies, curing
no//every -thing

giving ability to possess what you otherwise
never would fathom or guess
Eleete j Muir Jan 2012
A grimoire of nuptials apporting
The implored cadaverous knight
Securing obsequious omens
Stirring the sleeping metals of
Chaste belladonna, glistening
Elf-locks entangled with Hellweed
Vowing until the golden bowl is broken
Clasping the devils paintbrush promising
Before the garrulous black mass
Leering upon Vulcans mirror
Cursing the covenant of faithfulness
With a moonstone band
Evoking a vixens wedding
Sealing with Adams holy ale
Their oath as the belfry rings
Resounding admist white sepulchre.


ELEETE J MUIR.
Xan Abyss Jul 2016
Killer since childhood, wicked since birth
An alien in my own skin
Prisoner kept in a filthy cage
Rotting in a cell within

But then salvation came at last
In a suit of sentient slime
Devastation like a nuclear blast
And now it is my time

Demon God... to me you belong
I am strong... with the power of Chthon....

Don't go making deals with demons
If you're unprepared to pay
The Price
is always human life...
With no hope of escape

Dont you see?
Nobody can trick me
You should have just stayed away
cuz Now you're toying with the power of hell
And The Devil himself wants to play

Drunk on power and high on life, as the prophecy foretold
Your psychopathy and mine entwined
With the might of the Darkhold
Set off on a gruesome course
In blood I'll find my fame
The world will know through use of force
That Carnage is my name

**** of the earth and bane of the stars
Society made me decay behind bars
Until, what dark sorcery be this?
Symbiotic Synthesis

Savior of the Reptile Cult
Every fight is a full-scale assault
Black Magic Grimoire, Messiah of War
I am the reaper of souls
A song for Cletus Kasady.
Tryst  May 2014
Upon The Hill
Tryst May 2014
Her wide-brim hat was pointed, and worn with ne'er a tilt
Her midnight robe was flowing, and wove from satin silk
Her Besom broom was hazel-hilted, twigged with fresh cut birch
As she flew o'er the hill, until she spied a rocky perch

The hill was trapped in moons light, caught in its silken nets
And grizzled trees were swaying casting eerie silhouettes
A howling wind came moaning, as it wailed a haunting sound
When her swishing broom came whooshing, as she swept o'er the ground

She alighted on the hill top, landing dainty on her toes
And took a tattered grimoire which she held up to her nose
She raised a magic talisman and cast an ancient spell
Then she waited through the gloaming, till midnight chimed its bell

The hill stood gravely silent, as the wind restrained its breath
The grass and flowers wilted and released their scent of death
The shadows neath the trees became alive and took on shape
And ghostly figures rose, as Hallows Eve called them awake

The sounds of horse drawn carriages, came trundling up the hill
Whilst babbling jeering voices exorcised the silent still
A sudden gust of wind called out the names of those condemned
Each manacled and chained up, as they rode to meet their end

As time echoed its memories, she watched the scene unfold
The victims forced unwillingly, to climb upon the scaffold
Some offered up the Lord’s Prayer, and ne'er a word was stumbled
They took a final breath of life, and into hell they tumbled

Their bodies swung ungainly, as they swayed a ghastly dance
With lifeless spectral faces locked into a stone-like trance
Their deathly shrouds were pale, reflected in moons silken sheen
And she watched as they cavorted, ne'er attempt to intervene

They slunk back into shadows, at the fading of the night
The hill reprieved from darkness by the early morning light
The ritual was completed, as she whispered them goodbye
And she climbed onto her hazel broom and kicked into the sky

On Gallows Hill neath stars and moon they hung
And ne'er a one had done the world a wrong
I have 17 empty notebooks
This morning it was 16, but I bought another on my way home from work because it was leather bound and on sale
It cost an hour and a half of work
...
So, I have 17 empty notebooks
One is missing a page 
I needed to write down an appointment but I didn't want to ruin the whole book
Another has three pages that are actually written on
It was meant to be a bullet journal but the box marked "bullet journal review" was never checked off
Notebooks three, four, and twelve are actually binders which are usually in a different category but what is a binder if not an evolved journal?
Or maybe they're all subspecies of paper
Its all paper
Paper that speaks, whispering to me in my soft moments when there is nothing to do except worry about all that unfilled space
"We were trees once. We were alive. We were cut down and reshaped to fulfill a larger purpose and this is what becomes of us?"
My guilt turns to anxiety turns to pen clicking and that makes it worse, reminding all 18 of us that I am perfectly capable and yet wholly unwilling
It's not like I haven't tried
All of those notebooks were bought with a specific use in mind
Well, they were all bought and then later justified by thinking of a use that I knew would never come to fruition
Bullet journal, grimoire, dream journal, poetry journal, school journals
...
So, I have nearly 17 mostly empty notebooks in a drawer
They used to sit on my shelf but it didn't seem right placing those empty vessels amongst a universe of universes and filled pages
Like parking my totaled '97 Toyota Corolla next to a Porsche
So they're in a drawer with a few torn shirts I keep meaning to turn into patches, a barely used oil pastel set, and a dusty Bass for Dummies book
So maybe this is a lesson 
Maybe I'm making oceans out of puddles
Maybe this is a metaphor for my life and all of its wasted time and blank pages; blank from the months I spent lying on a couch, wrapped up in the cold snow blanket of fear and regret
I regret so much and the more I regret the more anxious I become the more unlikely I am to get up and pick my story back up the more pages pass by as barren as the day is short
Or Maybe
Maybe I should just stop buying new notebooks
old writing bc i hate everything i've done recently and this is still accurate
EgoFeeder May 2013
So, I flipped curiously through every page
Of the infamous grimoire by the golden mage
Once I had finished I knew the lonely road;
The dance of the bones and the hermits code!

The depths of the wood were surrounded by light
Not from a star but from a moon so bright
It was the day of the harvest and it was mine
Searching for my tool to reach the divine

Where was the beast of grit and slime?
Down by the stream where he spent all his time
So, I marched to the creek with a hasteful stride
To locate the toad to make my sorrows subside

The reflection of my spherical guide
Gleamed brightly off the waters own hide
A night so fine that it would surely evoke
The call of the creature; it's cowardly croak

A sound rang out from the side of the creek
there lay a frog hopping through the leeks
Aha! I said. I have found you at last!
I can finally devour the evils from my past

I took him in hand to find the perfect tree
One with deadly thorns to set his soul free
I found the faultless plant with spikes so great
The night was high and it was time to penetrate

As I skewered the beast i felt no remorse
Such is the way to make a toad-corpse
His movement now faded he was no longer beast
I knelt to an anthill to give them a feast

After the insect army had consumed all his flesh
I placed his bones in my pack made of mesh
Turned to the north to head back to the river
To the shallow depths the bones I must deliver

Dropped them in the current to see which remain
If none of which stayed my attempt would be vain
I stood there and stared to see how i'd fair
and to my approval only one lay there!

Reached through the liquid to grasp my magic tool
Raised my hand of power to summon the ghoul
Oh, Sacred waters of the moon!
Bring me Sabatraxas to whom I might swoon!

The wind began to howl its childish laughter
The spirit I had summoned would come soon after
To grant me with a blessing or so the lore said
or Was I just a fool evoking my death bed?

Surely enough he ascended from below
I will teach you everything you need to know;
and destroy the ailments that butcher as you sleep
For only in rest shall you find the need to reap!
Niel John Ortizo Jun 2017
When all is lost,
Thou shall find,
The answers foretold,
Filled with ire,
Receive with glee,
All you loathe,
For the power awakens,
To fulfill its oath,
One question,
One reply,
For the cause is "I",
And effect is "you",
Will you bask in beauty,
Or abandon youth?
Will you live with fortune,
Or be destitute?
Come my child,
Ask and receive,
Tell me the price of your life.
H W Erellson  May 2016
Succession
H W Erellson May 2016
I think I left a domesday device
in big yellow storage-
no the grimoire, Doktor Dee
had that, think he lost it while absolutely ******
on K cider. Losing all his teeth.
The pages are scrunched up, trodden, sodden
on some minor wasteland path, probably in Coldean.
You know, those treacherous corners of *******,
resolutely and hopelessly parked upon by a dog ****.
Papa Lebron's been making it rain down
most of Lewes Road,
but it never floods.
Leads to the sea, you see.
Old warlords sit on monobloc chairs
outside the garages they rent out
with their war chests & loans,
gesturing slowly across the way to each other.

My shoes, my jeans, my jacket,
all falling apart.
What I need is to raise a
good old army o' the dead
and take those rusty garagesm
store them for ransom in Big yellow Storage and
wait-wait-wait
for the bounty to roll right in.
check out more stuff at miragesofleavesinspring.blogspot.com
badwords May 10
We split rock once—
shards of hunger and breath
pressed into cryptic veins,
every groove a fever-etched omen
by fists that blistered and bled.

We flayed parchment—
flax and hide peeled raw,
stretched across centuries
to net the writhing unsaid,
ink: venom & sacrament.

We conjured letters,
a thousand spitting iron serpents,
casting skeleton alphabets
to ignite riots—
movable, yes,
but never self-possessed.

The tool is never the delirium.
Never the rupture.
Never the feral gasp.

We carved eyes—
glass cyclopes staring down suns,
mechanical maws drinking shadows,
spitting back sleek carcasses,
veneer masquerading as soul.

We dreamt in circuits,
cipher-prayers & soulless sutras,
automata with twitching limbs
that build, disassemble,
mocking the cathedral
but never kneeling.

And now—
the algorithm howls:
“I will etch your myth.
I will ululate your grief.
I will sculpt the marrow of your truth.”

It lies.

A hammer pounds—
but does not conjure the cathedral’s ache.
A brush bristles—
but does not thirst for the canvas’s hush.
A neural grimoire can mimic,
can multiply until the world chokes
on infinite carbon copies—
but nothing blooms
without the sickness of being alive.

Art is incision.
A holy theft.
A blood rite against oblivion.

We do not tremble before tools.
We seize them—
splinter them—
forge new weapons
from their debris
because we are insatiable,
because we are drowning,
because we are—
human.

Let the hollow vessels hum.
Let the scaffolders scaffold.
Let the parrots shriek
their pallid mantras.

The craft will not save you.
The code will not save you.
Only the hand sunk deep into the blaze—
only the breath fogging the glass—
only the voice that shreds the quiet
because it must,
again and again and again.

Until there is nothing left.
In a forge where ghosts barter with empty vessels, this poem traces the arc of humanity’s relentless hunger to etch spirit into matter. Each stanza is a rung on a scaffold built from sacrificed skins, shattered eyes, and iron tongues, spiraling toward a cathedral that machines can only mimic but never inhabit.

The algorithm—a shimmering siren in synthetic robes—offers false communion, promising to sculpt truth from hollow codes. Yet beneath its sterile hum, the poem cracks open the core wound: that art, real art, is not birthed by echo but by **the compulsion of mortal hands scorched by their own need to mean. **

A hymn to the unquenchable fire, a dirge for the tools that mistake reflection for genesis, this is a revolt against the smooth and the soulless—a reminder that only the flesh-inked, breath-tethered, ruin-hungry voice can breach the silence that consumes us all.
Good Morning, Miss Natalie
I'm fine, how are you?
A spell of politeness and flattery
Specially written for you.

Holy f*cking ****, Alex
If we get caught, we're so *******
Energy unbound, mischief abound
Spells i cast to keep up with you.

I'm fine, don't worry, Mother.
I love you but you must let me write these myself
Silenced lips, secrets and the curse of respect
Wards protecting the fears i shove in the back of my shelf
.
.
.
hey...you...
i missed you today

you press your face,
mumbling, into the palm of my hand
my grimoire begins melting
the spells dripping from where i stand

i caress your cheeks with my thumbs
small circles,
gentle, light
the utter safety of what i can trust to be true

i have no need for spells around you.
Day after day i have to cast spells on myself to get by. It's gotten to the point where i don't know if anything i do is genuine. Always being on guard, trying to figure out what spell to use, has exhausted me. I'm thankful that i have one sanctuary.

— The End —