- Grell Sutcliff & Madam Red in “Lycoris that Blazes the Earth”
(I love how Madam seems genuinely frightened/uncomfortable even in front of Butler Grell. She’s so afraid of this person since the beginning yet she was at that point relying her entire existence on Grell. And the way Grell is bored by Madam’s emotion is just… never mind just read my tags)
favorite people 🐻 kang seulgi (red velvet) // also a HUGE thank you to @rhapsvdy for helping me out with this thing. i suck at making images with a transparent background and i wouldn’t have ever finished this edit if it weren’t for her ♡
“I thought maybe she’d whisk us off by magic, or at least hail a taxi. Instead, Bast borrowed a silver Lexus convertible.“
"Oh, yes,” she purred. “I like this one! Come along, children.”
“But this isn’t yours,” I pointed out.
“My dear, I’m a cat. Everything I see is mine.” She touched the ignition and the keyhole sparked. The engine began to purr.
All credit goes to Scarlet Imprint Publishing, but this was such a powerful read, I want to share it here:
Babalon: An Invocation
“It is dark in the Ephesus cell.
Helena ties the band across her forehead.
Greek letters in the single light of a lamp.
Before she had lashed in black and draped in chains across Asia.
Stood as the moon on the roof of the brothel in Tyre.
Now dressed in cardinal red and proud purple of this bishopric she is the voices of the thunder perfect mind.
The world soul Sophia, a pythoness curled around the bread of the last supper.
– I am ready for them Simon
The voice of split tongue wisdom flickering lightning like.
The pleroma strobe lit with hissing.
This is the goddess come to earth.
Bernice the Jewish Empress stirs in her villa on the seven heads of hills,
mouth heavy with the communion wine she shares with the conquerors.
A she-wolf giving suck to the divine twins of Jerusalem and Rome.
There is no henbane or haoma in the blood of this dead god,
But power, influence, greed.
In the Temple of Aphrodite the whores dress for war with carmine lips.
A dusk sashay to lure the converts of Jesus the hunchback Christ.
The split fig cunt song of do-what-thou-wilt-with-me.
Do you have that single coin for my lap?
Yet it is John who evokes Her.
John of Patmos.
John stranded on his miserable rock, still unable to escape the low throb in his balls.
John whose words are the bitter sponge they offered to the lips of the Saviour.
John steeped in the hatred of the Patriarchs who saw their god fail them, again and again.
The Temple smashed, the Ark lost, the lions fed.
Prochoros bends his head as John dictates and writes down the words which will poison the world.
And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: And upon her forehead was written MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT. THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH. And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus: And when I saw her, I wondered, with great admiration.
John’s text is accepted as the final word.
The temples of Aphrodite are stripped as clean as Hypatia’s bones,
Clam-shell scraped by the jabbering monastics.
The whore not holy.
Simon Magus falls from the window on the orders of Paul, has his broken legged body sawn in half. The beloved assistant is not there to unite the severed parts with their guts of lolling silk scarves. Helena is gone from the oracular Ephesus cell, fled to the walnut tree of Benevento and obscurity. Left and lost to witchcraft.
No-one pursues Babalon like the Magdalene.
Chasing the wrong chalice of mystical Christianity,
not supping from the true wound of menstrual blood.
We lost our Love goddess to the substitutes in a switched card trick.
Instead we have the Blessed Virgin Mary, a cliterodectomy sewn up with the black beard hair of Yahweh.
Never fucked but full of suffering, eyes averted lest the Savior raises a hard-on while he dies on the cross.
Bound into every Bible, John’s words.
Delivered into every hospital, John’s words.
Guilt slipped in the hotel room drawer, John’s words.
An enemy for every prisoner, John’s words.
Repression for the schoolroom, John’s words.
Hatred for Babylon, John’s words.
This is our history of THOU SHALT NOT.
These are the words that will echo out again as the world edges degree by degree into one final Apocalypse.
Are you ready for the Revelation?
The striptease of your vain grades and titles, the loss of order, sense, Will.
The burning black blood of Ereshkigal is making the world a battlefield, a bridal bed.
Our scorched Eden sees BABALON risen on the incense of petroleum and roses and filled with furious Love.
John, we turn your words against you.
Our curse comes out as the last Love song.
The four snaking swastika rivers knotted and dammed in Babylon.
What was Sumeria is looted by American troops.
The Empire never ended.
Caesar’s men now rule a wasteland of depleted uranium and ship home Arkansas boys with shrapnel for legs.
A chalice of abominations , this fertile crescent now waxed pubis bare.
The women go black -veiled not for Tammuz, but Mohammed.
It is here where the first roses bloomed.
It is here that we evoke Her again.
Our fingers scrabble in the broken bricks for the sacred texts until the evening star rises.
Inanna, our lady of the great wild bridled lion.
Inanna, of honeysuckle sweetness.
Inanna, goddess of Love and War.
Inanna, the kingmaker come upon us.
Easter is the chamber at the top of the seven-step ziggurat.
Babel wreathed in lightning.
Where language is lost in the thighs of the priestess become goddess.
Where divine woman and divine man celebrate their equinox.
In the bedchamber, Venus rings steel sword blue, the morning star of dawn, the gate of the Sun.
But Babylon is fallen, an abode of serpents and unclean things.
The Jews bring Her back with them from captivity and have Her beaten by Jeremiah on the anvil of nationalism.
The wisdom of Solomon will not be repeated,
There will be no whoring after the goddess on the temple mount.
With every hammer strike the name changes,
Inanna: Ishtar: Astarte: Ashtaroth: Babalon.
Her face is smoked shulamite dark with the burning cedars cut down from the high places.
She is blamed for the beauty of the daughters of Jerusalem,
Thrown as Jezebel to the dogs,
Castigated as Salome,
Mistaken for the Magdalene,
Muddled with the lesser Lilith.
Smouldering red with iniquities and the denial of Love,
She knows Her Strength.
She is not destroyed by your history John, but brought with it.
A bloody pomegranate seed pressed in the pages which once tasted recovers the lost dream.
Augmented by the whispers of mandrake, poppy, hemlock, belladonna, hashish, wine.
The rising stench of sex and sweat and sperm and blood and always ever roses.
Babalon is conjured in a monastery nightmare of succubi and disembodied cocks.
An inquisitors fantasy tortured from the lips of the lost.
Torn with pincers, boot crushed and hoisted in strappado to the heavens.
This is how witchcraft learned how to fly.
The wisdom of the whore is the control of her body and life.
Irregular attempts are made to break the tyranny of marriage,
To abort the bastard children of mother church.
The Queen of the Sabbat reveals a thin slit of red petticoat beneath the damnable black.
Yet the church shackles woman to misery.
Drags her down from the high places
Where she is forced to buy freedom by being fucked in the alleyways.
Sacred sex profaned into possession, for an hour, or a lifetime of slavery.
A litany of rape, murder, abuse.
John Dee, bent in prayer does not hear this.
Kneeling with Kelley he seeks the language of Angels,
and receives a revelation liveried green as garlic blades, white as lilies, red as blood and black as bilberry juice.
Unfolding from the showstone, an Empire of Angels that divides the globe for the red headed harlot on the Lion throne.
Madimi moves through the library stacks.
– My Mother will make her house here
Jesus is not god, no prayer should be made unto Jesus, none shall judge you.
Babalon again from the long dark ages.
Babalon as Kelley, Dee, Jane and Joan exchange places between the sheets.
Babalon in the solve et coagule.
Babalon in the sex sphinx secret of alchemical interchange.
The retort shatters on the stand.
The four fall apart forever.
Kelley plunges from the tower, to his death.
Babel again, and Simon Magus,
a final transformation in the red mercury mess of his shattered shanks.
We pay our debts to Babalon in blood, not gold, and Her cup runneth over.
Who will heed the speech of the Daughter of Fortitude?
Her cross-crystal, golden girdle and naked breasts.
– Make your houses clean, for I come unto you again
Dee’s papers tumble from the secret chest and pass into the Golden Dawn.
Miscoloured, mispronounced, and mystified.
Only Crowley pursues Her into the Æthyr,
Spells Her name after Dee, as Wickedness.
Storms heaven on pearlescent cocaine wings and sexual excess,
Eats grass like an ox,
Wills, Knows, Dares, and tells.
Yet the Beast remains without a Bridal,
The cat, the snake, the camel, the monster.
Where is the Woman in this menagerie?
Incomplete, Alys kisses the back of his hand preparing for a Love he never surrenders to.
Where is She?
Lady Frieda Harris draws Her for us distilled from the Master’s last breaths.
An explosion of red and gold.
Parsons adores Her with pressed black powder charges.
Chanting Enochian, mescaline, amphetamine.
Here is the spirit of the Law, flowing as nectar.
Flowering with the Pasadena roses,
Spreading Her petals on the backdrop of the city of Angels.
Gone West to the new world Dee promised Her.
With huckster Hubbard, Jack strains for Love on this Battlefield Earth.
Despite the elemental mistakes he wins his vision.
Flame is our lady, flame is Her hair.
– I am living Flame.
Parsons goes after the Witchcraft, after Cameron, as a smashed flask of red mercury, as a storm of dust blown across the Mojave desert, as a crater on the darkside of the Moon.
The A-Bomb cracks the Akashic.
The fallout drifts down like sakura.
Babalon unveiled is starmarked by it.
The two thousand year Reich of Horus draws short.
Grant sees the teratomas, but there is little Love in his Craft.
Magick bickers and splits as we tilt past the tipping point.
Our Goddess is not Nuit blue emptiness, but brimful Belsen furnace red.
She tells us:
– It is the woman who initiates.
– It is Love which transforms.
– It is blood which transmits.
Exchange your cakes with kalas cooked to cinders.
For kisses from Her living lips.
Let go of false learning.
Forsake the cult of the severed head.
For Babalon sings in your blood.
The world is drunken and vexed, running on fumes.
A price on everything, a value on nothing.
It is here Babalon, that we evoke thee.
Everything becoming red.
Enochian angels pouring warlike from the watchtowers ,
and the 24 elders of days wondering where their God has gone.
Holy, Holy, Holy is the Whore.
A universe composed of burning roses,
Of everything fucking everything.
Be drunken as the reeling stars.
Adore the whore on hands and knees.
Open your beds and your hearts
Fuck and find Love.
Dakinis eviscerate the fallen saints for their bridal wear.
The armies mass for battle and She is here.
Babalon is here to bridle, bind, blossom and burn.
Her time is NOW.”