Table of Contents

• Home
• Introduction
• Where Goths Come From - Neef
• The Watcher - Hobbes
• The Resurrection Shuffle - Barbarella
• Cassandra - Cosey Mo
• Drunken Old Bastard - Sandro
• Alcohol - Trayce
• Shadows - Entrippy
• Entropy - Kage-Ryu
• Is There A Point - Trajik
• Whispers - Kitsune
• Confessional - Sandro
• Garden - Entrippy
• Radio - Cam
• Cold Spell - Nikolai
• Slices - Neef
• A Bottle of Something Strong - Jraff
• The Light Fades - Tim
• Rain - Tim
• Self Help - Gothic Gallae
• Cato - Trajik
• Addiction/Fragment - Trayce
• Heal Thyself - Nikolai
• Shattered - Hobbes
• Travelling Song - Solitaire
• Distance - Stranger
• Legacy - Stranger

Travelling Song

I burn incense now to keep away the dreams. I used to do it to invoke her memory, but now I do it to banish her essence. It's the smell of her I miss the most, and that haunts methe most. I burn oils, incense, scented candles; I spray perfume and even hideous modern air fresheners, but her dark Gypsy reek of avocado and womans most intimate sweat remains. Every moon, for about four nights as the moon struggles tobe born into the sable river of stars, I lie awake and watch it, the chthonic reek of blood in my mind mocking the puny artificial scents in my nose. I feel her legs around me, silky hairs caressing me, and I feel her nipples between my teeth, the way they were when my tears would flow down her belly, under the covers. She had a fantasy, she had never(or so she claimed then) been kissed all over, and so when I seduced her the second time, that was what I did, drunk on blue Vok and screaming silent tears to a Goddess who abandoned me far too young. And I left for work with her solver dolphin in my ear, because she'd never liked it anyway, and when I came home late, coming down from far too much speed, she said to her flatmate my exlover, Well, it looks like I'm babysitting again, and I said yes, didn't you realise? And it was the next week she taught me to read the cards, and gave me my first (and only) set, the first of many first and only things she did for me. She made real coffee and real love, and both were great, better than great at the time, but on my own I've never had the inclination or effort for either. Strong as death, black as revenge, and sweet as a stolen kiss, that was the soul of my Jinki Kalinda, my spirit of the sea. How can you steal a kiss, asks my little brother reading this, looking for proof. He's young, he'l learn. The same way you steal anything - timing. And she quoted William Blake and the Rocky Horror picture show, and listened too Gregorian Chants and the Sugarcubes, and had forty-six notches on her bedside table (plus my best friend is forty-seven plus me is forty-eight plus my little brother is forty-nine though she thought he was a dead root, and that's how you steal a hell of a lot more than a kiss, you bastard). The sex may have been great, but I don;t think I love her, now. Cry, human, for the loss of the only truth, the passing of the one thing for which there are no words, the incommunicable comfort. The shadow cast by solitude reaches far beyond the limitsof mortality, into the realms of the fantastic. Can not the gods themselves be lonely? and what are we save gods in ignorance? O bearer of unbearable beauty, pray for me in this hell of your creation, else find me something to believe, some spark of passion in a world made empty hell in your absence and indiffernce. Find me, find me again, for I need your love and comfort; I need the womb I cried over, the breasts I suckled at, the lips that stroked me. What I do not need is the love that says Thou Shalt Not. Oh my Goddess, grant me thy love, but with it thy freedom...