elftaint: FRANK. N. FURTER. (Default)
WELP someone else drew me a picture and I don't want to say who right away because because

Nevermind that. It is October; the stone of October is:

The Opal

Your feather of sand which separates slow waters
Encloses their cool luminance within the boulder.
How inwardly it turns, this brightness,
How private its radiance
How refined this iridescent river run within your slender confine.

This secret fire surrenders itself to the air at a touch:
The working rhythm of the grinding wheel
The perfusion of oil on your shining face.
elftaint: FRANK. N. FURTER. (Default)

Here I will write you a poem. No references, bitch!

The Chrysanthemum

What hundred petals are these what manifold
majesty this what hard mineral scent
buried in your lifegiving promise buried
in this sintering of autumn.

You will burn beneath ice
I will see to it personally

so promises winter
whose withering grasp must run in advance
grey gales and frost
who cannot even
approach
your strong stems

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elftaint: FRANK. N. FURTER. (Default)
Elf, the horrible degenerate

September 2010

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