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The Den Of Aged Women
As a child I recall, more than anything, the overlapping smells within Mrs. Greys salon.
Rollers wrapped in remnants of colour rinsed hair, the apothecary like collection of chemicals and unguents, perfumes and potions, tinctures and lotions. The combination of which was heightened, sharpened, made more piquant by the acidity of that bright, mirror-thrown, boutique light.
To my wide, hare pinned in headlights eyes the women within were terribly old.
Wrinkle carved, ancient and dreadful. They terrified me with their loose clacking teeth and with their harridans cackling.
Long witch-like fingers thrust into spat upon hankies would ever insist upon
the scrubbing raw and flensing away of any trespassing blemishes or stains from my grubby-urchin cheeks and chin so that I grew to dread my mother led pilgrimages to this incandescently vivid, over-lit den of
The Cthulhiad - The Thief
The Cthulhiad - The Thief. (Work in Progress)
"Catching haloes on the moon
gives my hands the shapes of angels
in the heat of the night
the animals scream
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