‘I shall not take retaliation into my very own. The immortal will do what she will.’ ‘So speck it be,’ said the grandmaster.
1980, Erica Jong, Fanny
‘So it be,’ something for good, even eviller, should they realize themselves stuck for catchy invocation, or spellcasting incantation (if you must), and if they are well into the tomes of those ways in which a Magus practice Magick, they may forever accept peerless foretoken for many thanks or please, by saying:
"As above, thus it is below. That which has been, will return once more. As in heaven, therefore on earth."
Low thing on her up-down check:
kicks, brogues, spats, snow boots, funereal, black, patent uppers.
The all-time thing they all do one way or another is why you still keep reading, and haven't noticed the response when they are as one with
a man, a baby, a beggar, a CEO;and to elucidate its importance:
a bad bitch on marble, or board, whose reason for living is the means that she gets to A, and do not count until it equals--for starters per week--then commensurate layout up-ladder--and with it, warehouse, mall, and dress shop, to shod your shape severe from eyes to feet, because as wise Magus whose preoccupation is precisely physical nexus and knowledge, urging Earth, and over it--as to form of our gait, locomotion of our perambulation, core, and carriage whose posture we forge vital despite untufted import; Magus is known for esoteric experiments into a heavy go at the thing which you may understand as Magic, but to which he applies refined and pregnant variation in more than orthography, in the entire darkling art of those who follow in the
Beast's bisulcate footsteps,or if they struggle to, and in unspecified time in future realize themselves with success invoking an entity, or so the story you may scan, its equine protagonist with kindness, sincere conservation from its hooves, whose shoes smithy shod among Thor's great bursts, and banged--not glowing out his bellows, discov hearth|of fireside|of fireplace to draw a bead and protest those whose morals pervert fire into lead, into war, into dirt--where all soldiers be repose--and take their rest.
A match whose pieces and moves played as child--see pawns at center, and their luxurious waiting--strategy simple to defeat--simply seek the piece with crown whose movement is that of an old and infirmed ruler, whose urarthritis make it attainable for one-step-at-a-time, and those pieces which flank, all equally hobble by locomotive governance, and lack motility--one may light out as far as corners, but diagonal optics are troublesome to hide, and one whose range of motion is free from near constraint, Her Highness, His bride, Queen, is imbued with full motion--and thus, She, not King, is target you have got.
But with freedom come disorientation as to whom shield, and the way to attack; so ruminate it laborious--pull out your books--dead, the pieces, perhaps the Rooks, whose vertical motion A to B, however, many another King has fallen.
His castelate inside, and while castle guarantees land where designed, suppose more concerning its name as territorial dominion, defense, and its stories of loathly those whose force appear largest, still notice them standing on green fields and hills, alone and gray as it forever has been--castle is nothing without those within.
Natural lust may provide luster, but her skin had shimmy while not having her move. Its good upon sun, making skin bake--regulate, remotely a body revive more resemble a ballad maker's starlight reverie--replenishing ruddy rosacea--renewing regenerate, resilient, satiny, embryonic, cuticular luxury.
Maybe, decadence.
Soft and alive, her largest organ, if removed, unfolded, or stretched by tanner, would sure enough, offer comfort, protection, and warmth.
Horsemarched down cutting tunnels, spooked, strange books in bound horseflesh, pilomotor reflex, and gutchecks.
Her resoluteness does his freedom still gallop beneath her--and into the wind, still on runway, or at end of strap--his Beast of Burden--le sac, or swag.
And, so, his hooves match coat, match shoes, match bag!
Shedding off buirdly bridle for silversmith--uniform equestrienne, consortium kingpin, wire fast, riling up--don't bother--$1200 boots.
Bridal Registry called and wants its Sterling back, for the love of everything in tarnation--you're wearing more utensils than Julia Roberts freaked out about in Pretty Woman.
If she breaks you, you can always ride out to Santa Fe and sell your ass to an American Indian homecoming and reparation foundation--you're sporting all Sitting Bull's jewelry, and you somehow managed to haul more than Sir Stephen Segall around your neck.
Full silver splay from lid to buckle. Scent coming back from your direction combined with fresh rub of Mane and Tail,
says: this Ranchera esta muy bonita, y ustedes, no quiere quit her if she despised Garth.
Bursts of fiery explosion, once banged sandwich and glowing, remodeling energy, platting it, but stronger for shoes whose metal reigns, saddle, blinders, and bits, were bling for horse and impressive stud.
Horse desires one, and not just to help him chew oats, barley, and trefoil quicker, but because a mare notices a pair of things whenever a Clydesdale or derby winner trots by, whether or not, up to its ears, buried to rock bottom of a gunny sack of Winter Hay--or walked to the stud room for making fast fillies of pedigree and luck.