What ho, my little herbal nasties! We left you last time on the verge of concupiscent congress with a dastardly demon from the lowest of the twenty-nine hells. You were conducting a magical rite with a gathering of mystically inclined friends in your secret forested abode when a phantasmagorical servant of Satan popped in on his way from the halls of damnation to see if you, or anyone else for that matter, were interested in a bit of infernal rumpy-pumpy, just to give the rite that special something.
So, what will you do in the month of jactitating July, sitting as it were on the horns of this dilemma? Why, my tiny twits, let us consult the vile and bitter prognostications and so discover!
Attend me, my surface-wiping loons! I am Asperitus, a reader of cheese and ashes, so you can imagine the aftertaste! Still, one must suffer for one's irritation, I suppose! I certainly do. Vamping Venus joins in nasty congress with grim Saturn and you and the demon stand poised at the point of no return, with you immobilised, considering your options. You must bear in mind that all else are asleep or so bored they have left and gone clubbing or gone home, as the ceremony was supposed to mark the Solstice. But you're frozen in time, little wittering virgins! You ask deep and philosophic questions of the demon about hell and all its minions, and the various levels on which they dwell. So many and so intricate are your inquires that the infernal one becomes bored and is soon yawning too, ready to surrender this conquest of a soul, rather than listen for one moment more to your irritating voice and frustrating barrage of lunatic questions. Mischievous Mercury moves out of perverse reverse and you decide in the negative, explaining that, as Venus is set to move into your sign, you have your body paint the way you like it and do not wish it to be smeared by means of improper movement or sulphurous emission (this latter being astringent for your sensitive skin). And, as a New Moon is set to come in slimy and neurotic Cancer, you feel it would be unwise to form a bond with a hellish creature. Better by far would be a bond with a warm and loving group of friends! Sloughing off the mask of boredom and disinterest, the demon falls upon your person and rogers the living daylights out of you anyway, in a punitive response for impertinence and time-wasting, making fair use of an obscene encounter between marauding Mars and cranky Chiron that is currently polluting the cosmos.
Great griping grandmothers and nitpicking nannies, tiny twits! That's a thing to leave you speechless and distracted, both of which are conditions you experience as you recover consciousness after being demonized in a most personal and intimate manner. But yet you are left bereft, abandoned by your friends and deserted by your demon lover whose affections you now tragically crave. The great Sol Invicti clatters drunkenly into lackwit Leo and your solar twelfth house, set for a meeting with grim Saturn that already skulks there, in the especially dark and nasty parts where dwell the hidden fears and concealed enemies as well as the little sprite known as 'Self Undoing'. Eek!
The twelfth house is a wretched realm of sorrows, psychics, somnambulists, spies and slaves, along with the odd smuggler and, ye gods and little fishes, the worst of all, a multitude of social workers, trying to help everyone! Ugh! What creature in their right mind would travel there! But that is land of heartache where you're doomed to wander for the dazed days that follow. And worse is yet to come as marauding Mars, grim Saturn and narcotic Neptune meet in an obscene embrace to make the Emperor Caligula blush, even while riding his favourite horse. Weep and weep again, little virgins, as you wander the wild forest, seeking in anguish that fiery yet ecstatic sting of demonic love. Whether Incubus or Succubus, this is a bus you must ride on yet again! The bus to hell! But you cannot find the stop nor the shelter of infernal arms nor the fire of infernal loins.
Great gods alive and dead, what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's a Full Moon in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god. Your distress has made you unwell! Feverish visions grip you and grope you as you fall on dewy grasses in a parlous and wretched state, fast losing consciousness in the rising tide of sorrowful eructation. As marauding Mars rams the rude bit into lugubrious Saturn in a most repugnant place though, it must be said, at an impressive speed, you cry out to be ravished by your demon lover one last time before you expire, as all the world can offer is ennui, ennui and ennui after your dalliance with hell!
Great barking bandicoots, little virgins! What will happen to you in the grip of this malaise of blasphemous devotion to the powers of damnation? Click next time for the first exciting instalment of A VIRGIN GOES TO HELL. For the nonce, ave, tiny twits!