GUEST POST // #2407 by onlyfragments

I am not the granddaughter of the witches you couldn’t burn.
I am not the blood of their blood or any of that suburban white witch bullshit.
I am Witch because the title is mine to claim by right:
by right of my rage
by right of my resistance
by right of my existence in a world
that threatens to crush everything I love under the boot heel of assimilation.
You want Burning Times?
I’ll show you some motherfucking Burning Times.

© All rights reserved 2020

THE CRUMBCAST // Lovers of a Lesser God

I hate being preachy, but I feel I might have crossed that line with the latest Crumbcast. I guess this stems from the fact that I’m finally ready to reveal what I really think when it comes to relationship and religion (with a dash of sexy sex thrown in for good measure). Of course, it’s not as if the world is breathlessly awaiting my opinions! I’m certainly under no illusions about that. Really, I’m only doing this because I want to. If someone’s willing to listen… then great!

Also, it’s only fair that I warn my religious friends and readers that some of the views expressed in this episode may be offensive to them. While I don’t feel it necessary to apologise for said views, I do want to acknowledge the distress that they may cause. So, please do be aware that I don’t take this lightly, and that I hope we can at least agree to disagree. It would be grand if we could still be chums anyway. Yeah, let’s give peace a chance, man!

Oh, and please do feel free to read Matching Jeremy Tang for some much needed context regarding this installment of the podcast (which can be found below). Crumble Cult is my baby, so I enjoy having people fuss over it! Hint. Nudge. Insert winking smiley here…

© All rights reserved 2017

GUEST POST // Eucharistic Liturgy of Lurid Life by Jonathan Noble & Tetiana Aleksina

Wraiths unseen creep in blight neath bed of night;
I belong to them, I am their birthright;
I long for them, sick in soul, and in their sight
Sit in shame like worthless baggage claim;
I am a merely pathetic acolyte
To perform unholy rite of morbid plight,

To cover the altar with a red baize,
To light poison incense in pretense of praise,
To robe a lump of clay of hard black glaze,
To spread bad bread to supplicants in puzzlement
As pyres are lit in fires for sullied, sordid men
Screaming with no more dreaming of redemption!

© All rights reserved 2016

GUEST POST // I Am Not… But I Wonder by Jonathan Noble

I’m not a shopper, hopper, nor a pill-popper;
I’m not a preacher, teacher, not a people-leecher;
I’m not a vendor, lender, nor a mind-bender;
I’m not a thug, slug, not an assassin-bug;
But I wonder who I am, and how many are,
∼∼∼∼∼∼∼ as I reach for my own bright star.

I’m not a socialist, idealist, no party fist;
I’m not a protestor, warmonger, not a go-getter;
I’m not a street bum, bibber of rum, lord of a slum;
I’m not a hater, traitor, nor a game-baiter;
But I wonder who I am, and how many are,
∼∼∼∼∼∼∼ as I reach for my own bright star.

I’m not a suit, brute, nor a corporate boot;
I’m not a romantic, pedantic, not a life-mantic;
I’m not a heller, speller, nor a fortune-teller;
I’m not a doubter, shouter, not a doctrine-flouter;
But I wonder who I am, and how many are,
∼∼∼∼∼∼∼ as I reach for my own bright star.

I’m not a scholar, trawler, not a doctrine hauler;
I’m not a specialist, analyst, nor a game panelist;
I’m not a lazy man, crazy man, nor member of a klan;
I’m not a doubter, shouter, nor a free-flouter;
But I wonder who I am, and how many are,
∼∼∼∼∼∼∼ as I reach for my own bright star.

Where am I? Where are you? As our world turns and burns,
Waiting for love from above, and release to real peace?
What are you, and what are you not? Who is and who is not?
∼∼∼∼∼∼∼ as you reach for your own bright star…

© All rights reserved 2015

GUEST POST // The Comfort of a Warm Heart by Poetic Depression

My cold-blooded and weeping heart
pressed against my chest, hard
Feelings intertwined with quilt
An empty glass never filled

Lose me once and I’ll never return
I need you for longer than now
It looks like I’m not the only one that still has to learn.

vaguely I remember her
A face beautiful, like her
her attractive individuality.

She sat alone on the stairs of the church closed down
For no one believed in God
Everyone had their reasons she tought.
But she knew she was lying

and I walked by
Offered her the comfort of my warm home
I told her not to be scared
I told her that she didn’t have to be alone

and I offered her some tea
“with sugar” she pleased
I smiled and poured it in
The start of a beautiful sin.

And we did not kiss
and we did not touch
we just talked the night away
let our problems astray

Then she left me
and never returned
bound to find her
but i had learned

I was alone

sitting on the stairs of the closed down church
Something hard hit my back
It was the door
by a woman in that crack
It was her
Tea with sugar?
she asked.

© All rights reserved 2015