Scorpio is the mysterious the unspeakable the haunted mind. It is autoerotism in a scarlet sheet of pure silk. Write with the pen of Scorpio and you unhinge your own crypt. Enter death. A dual with mortality. One last shocking breath. Arctic waters flush your arteries. Behold. Knowledge. You did not die.
Rather I burst from rapture
Than be reserved in love
Let my droplets fall on the souls of those
Whose name I never knew
Conjuring their orgasms, trilling to their suckling pleas
The pen of Scorpio leaks horror, mystery and venom from a stirred imagination. It crafts the steely, erotic Sherlock Holmes. It flows with the ancient haunted house on the wild ocean cliff where the compelling Vincent Price stands nonchalantly in his silk smoking jacket, befriended by a raven and holding a goblet of garnet wine which alludes to fresh blood. The pen thrills us with moonlight murders, gum-chewing detectives, and Frankenstein creatures that howl from their primeval brains. We are aroused by Dracula, terrified by the hunchback, and cohorts with Boris Karloff and Bella Lugosi. Lastly, the drifting music of Laura melts us into the portrait of a murdered beauty. We are infatuated.
Esmerelda Jones... writer of desires
Victoriana, Victorian Swoon & Erotica, Gods & Goddesses: The Wisdom And Pleasures of Ancient Greece, Classic Romance, Poems For The Passionate, Bushrangers, Ghosts I Have Known, Crystal Ball Clairvoyant. Rating and comments delightfully accepted.
