Ode of A Luna-tic

To my dearest,

Its been quite some time since we last spoke, almost nearly a decade. It’s been so long that I’ve started to forget what you sound like.

I truly miss you, dearest. Every time the night draws near, during the deepest hours where everything becomes still, that is when I think of you the most. Your silvery hair and night-dyed eyes keep me awake. I see them imprinted in the air, floating towards the ceiling. I know that isn’t you up there, but sometimes, when I’m lying in bed alone and thoughtless, I reach my hand out to your apparition only to be met with your figure distorting like a dissipating fog.

Why must you torture me like this? Plaguing my mind during the night when the sun is no longer up high to guard my thoughts from you? It has been so long that I would hope to have forgotten you completely by now, and yet, here you are. Not quite alive, but not quite dead either. A marble statue in the core of my memory, standing tall and ever present. I can speak and beg and cry to you all I please, but I will only be met with an empty stare, lifeless chest, and cold marble skin.

Oh dearest how I long to see you once more. To hear your bell-like voice chime through my ears and send shivers down my spine. To sing me to sleep with your dreams that float from your mind and prance onto your lips.

But you are gone, dearest. Yes you are gone and never to return to my arms for you were never there to begin with. All I have is the light that shines above my head when the night comes by, lights that dare not interrupt the suns daily course. These lights I shall remember you by each time I lay my head and peer out the window. And the moon, yes the moon. May the moon be my reminder that, somewhere, you are waiting for me, up high in the sky like a celestial body deep in slumber.

So goodnight my dearest, I feel much less alone now. May you rest fitfully and may you dream the sweetest of dreams for me. May you be bright, my dearest, and if your light does cease to shine one day (as it someday will), I shall take you in my arms and shine for you.

– Ode of A Luna-tic

a day in the life

Happy UnSunday.

Good Morning, my heathens. Have you all been well? I’m sorry I’ve been gone for quite some time, dears. I assure you, however, that I haven’t forgotten about any of you in the time we were apart. Time is simply a fleeting being and had beat me two Sundays in a row.

Our current state of affairs is really something to ponder over, my heathens. I, for one, am very fond of doing so with you all. But let us take a break from that. Instead, we’ll ponder over more pointless things.

Such as love.

love is a notion, a musical number, a thoughtless book, an empty word. I don’t really care for it just as I don’t really care for okra or patchouli. It’s distasteful, bothersome, and absolutely illogical. I particularly despise those who become blinded so easily by it, not even bothering to put up a resistance and instead totally and completely falling victim to it. I can’t stand such infectious, incurable viruses.

To let the very word slip off your tongue means to show susceptibility to its effects. Be cautious, all of you. You can be infected right in this very moment and not even know it. Be courteous and meander on over to the nearest quarantine chamber to gas yourself with a numbing solution so that you can stop the spread of such a dangerous infection. Only you can be the cure. Call your local heathens today to receive a consultation. Only you can be the cure.







An Ode for the Girl Who Glared At Me

Do you know what it’s like to cry for a stranger? It’s the strangest feeling in the world, my heathens… I’ve done it before, many years ago. I wish I could do it now. The only feeling I can manage now is a slightly more empty soul and a feeling of restlessness.

Her sensations still linger as wisps and fragments in the places she used to sit, in the people she used to speak to…

I didn’t love her. She was just another voice in a room, another hilarious pun in the hush and stillness of awkward confusion.

But her absence still has weight. A weight that can be passed by on a mere glance but the more you focus on it, the heavier it gets.

I barely knew the girl who glared at me those many years ago. Her slim, petite figure and flaxen hair are all worthy of the minuscule memory she has in my mind. The jumpy eyes and bored-to-death tone mingled with her baggy hoodie and sweatpants that hide a lightly blemished face, every detail becomes more obscure the less she is here.

I barely knew her, my heathens. Barely. All I know of her are the whispers of her friends and the slight movements of her falling out of chair from the corner of my eye. That is all I will ever know.

We may not have known much of the other, but I will still hang my head for her. The dead deserve respect, my heathens, from the unorthodox to the unspeakably plain. All life is meaningful and the extinguishing of it must be commemorated.

So hang your heads, my heathens. Close your eyes and send her fleeting soul your best of wishes, your fickle goodbyes, for when the time comes when she can no longer be sought, she will be totally and absolutely gone.


In honor of A.


How to make a love poison

How to Make a Love Poison

You’ll need your materials. Ground cinnamon, wanning moon water, and rose thorns. You will also need an object of your recipient, anything will do. Make sure you have a vessel on hand [i.e. bottles, jars, containers, etc.] as well as a preparing dish.

Protective tools such as salt, candles, bells, incense,or red string are not mandatory, but encouraged.

It is best to perform the conjuring during a full moon when all forces are at their peak.


Silence is important. Perform the conjuring in a quiet space during the darkest parts of the night. No partners are necessary. It is best that you work alone.

Place your protections about you before you begin. Once satisfied, sit on the floor with your materials before you. 

Pour the wanning moon water into the dish. Blend in the cinnamon. Drop the object of your recipient into the dish and top the mixture with the rose thorns. Stir.

It is important to fill your thoughts with ill intentions. Failed love, non-existent love, false love, or if you fancy, toxic love. You may even force thr recipient to become infatuated with yourself or another person. Your thoughts and energies will imbue into the mixture.

When satisfied, pour the mixture into a vessel [a funnel may help get the mixture inside the vessel] and seal tightly. 

Rest the vessel upon a windowsill or somewhere near the moon for the night. The full moon’s amplifying abilities will amplify the intensity of the poison.

Clean up.


This poison is very simple, but moderately dangerous. The creation of the poison will result in the recipent being cursed however the caster wishes them to be. The effects may wear off with time so recreating the poison with new materials [including recipient’s object] may be necessary.

The poison within the vessel must never be revealed to the recipient or the effects will be instantly canceled. The poison must also never be opened [unless it is being emptied for a new poison or disposed of correctly] or the effects will be transferred to the caster.

To dispose of the poison, an apology must be made to the recipient [not in person] while holding the vessel firmly. Asking for forgiveness is crucial. Empty the contents into a dug up hole in the earth and bury it afterwards. After disposing the poison, it cannot be remade for the same person anytime in the future.

a day in the life

Cold Sundays 

Good day, heathens. Oh how I’ve missed you all. Did you have a good week? If not, come into my arms and I shall comfort you. Everything is as it should be.

We live in a world that revolves around expressing freedom in its most inhuman of ways. Of course, the lot of you can take that however you please, but my heathens understand. They understand things you don’t. Things you will never comprehend in this life nor in the next and so forth. 

But amongst the chants of mixed signals, there are swift moments of remembrance. Peace that comes from reminiscing. The familiar things despite us never truly having recollection of them. Those strange fragments of the past linger within us during the most silent hours and rush over us like a wave from a dying ocean, one last sweep of life and seafoam before it tucks itself back into the folds of absolute chaos, unable to be found.

I miss those rushes of memory, heathens. They do not come to me when I will them to; they choose when they want to be seen. Perhaps it’s their very capricious nature that makes them so worthwhile.

Today and always I encourage you, my lovely heathens, to savor those quiet moments. The moments where you remember things, sensations, feelings that you’ve never felt in the entirety of your lives, yet are still yours. Hold those mysteries dear to you for as long as you can, let them brush your arms and ankles, your eyes and through your hair, because once they have satisfied their time with you, they will disappear without a single way to draw them back.