MORE THINGS THAN ARE DREAMT OF

MORE THINGS THAN ARE DREAMT OF
Art by William Adolphe
BE PREPARED FOR THE UNUSUAL AND MACABRE

B L O O D and R O S E S

B L O O D  and  R O S E S
LUXURY DECADENCE FETISH HORROR ECCENTRICITY LUST GOTHIC

Sunday, November 20, 2011

THE SITWELLS: Dame Edith Sitwell & brothers. Photos by Cecil Beaton, Horst etc.





















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    Clowns' Houses


      BENEATH the flat and paper sky
      The sun, a demon's eye,
      Glowed through the air, that mask of glass;
      All wand'ring sounds that pass
      Seemed out of tune, as if the light
      Were fiddle-strings pulled tight.
      The market-square with spire and bell
      Clanged out the hour in Hell;
      The busy chatter of the heat
      Shrilled like a parakeet;
      And shuddering at the noonday light
      The dust lay dead and white
      As powder on a mummy's face,
      Or fawned with simian grace
      Round booths with many a hard bright toy
      And wooden brittle joy:
      The cap and bells of Time the Clown
      That, jangling, whistled down
      Young cherubs hidden in the guise
      Of every bird that flies;
      And star-bright masks for youth to wear,
      Lest any dream that fare
      --Bright pilgrim--past our ken, should see
      Hints of Reality.
      Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green,
      Tall trees like rattles lean,
      And jangle sharp and dissily;
      But when night falls they sign
      Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in,
      His face more white than sin,
      Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bare
      Each cherry, plum, and pear.
      Then underneath the veiled eyes
      Of houses, darkness lies--
      Tall houses; like a hopeless prayer
      They cleave the sly dumb air.
      Blind are those houses, paper-thin
      Old shadows hid therein,
      With sly and crazy movements creep
      Like marionettes, and weep.
      Tall windows show Infinity;
      And, hard reality,
      The candles weep and pry and dance
      Like lives mocked at by Chance.
      The rooms are vast as Sleep within;
      When once I ventured in,
      Chill Silence, like a surging sea,
      Slowly enveloped me.
      Edith Sitwell



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