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More on the colour green
Feb. 27th, 2009 09:48 am"He had that curious love of green, which in individuals is always the sign of a subtle artistic temperament, and in nations is said to denote a laxity, if not a decadence of morals." -- Oscar Wilde
“Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches." -- Federico Garcia Lorca
“Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches." -- Federico Garcia Lorca
The Pale Opal Wine
Feb. 1st, 2009 12:35 amApollo, mourning the demise of Hyacinth,
Would not cede victory to death.
His soul, adept of transformation,
Had to find a holy alchemy for beauty.
So from his celestial hand he exhausts and crushes
The subtlest gifts from divine Flora.
Their broken bodies sigh a golden exhalation
From which he harvest our first drop of - Absinthe!
In crouching cellars, in sparkling palaces,
Alone or together, drink that potion of loving!
For it is a sorcery, a conjuration,
This pale opal wine aborts misery.
Opens the intimate sanctuary of beauty
- Bewitches my heart, exalts my soul in ecstasy.
La légende de l'Absinthe by Aleister Crowley
Would not cede victory to death.
His soul, adept of transformation,
Had to find a holy alchemy for beauty.
So from his celestial hand he exhausts and crushes
The subtlest gifts from divine Flora.
Their broken bodies sigh a golden exhalation
From which he harvest our first drop of - Absinthe!
In crouching cellars, in sparkling palaces,
Alone or together, drink that potion of loving!
For it is a sorcery, a conjuration,
This pale opal wine aborts misery.
Opens the intimate sanctuary of beauty
- Bewitches my heart, exalts my soul in ecstasy.
La légende de l'Absinthe by Aleister Crowley
The Old Absinthe House
Feb. 1st, 2009 12:19 amThe Old Absinthe House is not a place. It is not bounded by four walls. It is headquarters to an army of philosophies. From this dim corner let me range, wafting thought through every air, salient against every problem of mankind: for it will always return like Noah's dove to this ark, this strange little sanctuary of the Green Goddess which has been set down not upon Ararat, but by the banks of the "Father of Waters." ~Aleister Crowley, The Green Goddess
Early morning light filters through the dirty windows of the bar. Vert yawns and stretches, the bottles and glasses clinking as her feet brushes passed them. She sits up and rubs the sleep from her eyes. Another long night of drawing the marrow from the bone. All work and no play makes Vert a dull girl.
She slides off the mahogany bar and manifests a robe of dove grey silk. Smoke and dreams. Her fingers play over the keys of the rickety old piano, picking out a few random notes.
A new morning, a new day, another chance to find a potential to inspire to greatness.
[cont'd at![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
mixed_muses , here]
She slides off the mahogany bar and manifests a robe of dove grey silk. Smoke and dreams. Her fingers play over the keys of the rickety old piano, picking out a few random notes.
A new morning, a new day, another chance to find a potential to inspire to greatness.
[cont'd at
mixed_muses , here]
