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Gol Goatha
 
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Below are the 5 most recent journal entries recorded in Gol Goatha's LiveJournal:

Wednesday, October 20th, 2004
11:14 am
[thecrucified]
The Interests Meme
How common are golgoatha's interests
Universal
writing (352319)
love (203628)
poetry (198561)
sex (164309)
piercings (101917)
Popular
kissing (88041)
candles (73357)
hugs (69717)
psychology (64113)
fantasy (63766)
cuddling (61206)
Common
blood (40281)
making out (33223)
porn (32416)
bondage (30624)
slash (30426)
flirting (29286)
creativity (27182)
pain (25133)
strawberries (24687)
bisexuality (20574)
leather (20329)
freedom (20101)
roleplaying (20023)
lesbians (18134)
biting (17590)
make-up (17578)
erotica (17571)
wolves (17040)
heavy metal (17017)
passion (17015)
lust (16991)
sexuality (15047)
fishnets (13177)
activism (12567)
bubble baths (11811)
role playing (11775)
bisexual (11388)
massages (11280)
fetish (11249)
snuggling (11190)
masturbation (11039)
relationships (10026)
Specialist
nudity (9692)
individuality (9122)
oral sex (8890)
viggo mortensen (8572)
violence (8569)
goths (8282)
velvet (8048)
androgyny (7897)
alan rickman (7785)
lesbian (6920)
lingerie (6235)
polyamory (6003)
dolls (5641)
massage (5571)
body art (5560)
pornography (5398)
exploring (5308)
s&m (5254)
pride (4495)
dykes (4428)
kink (4368)
pleasure (4316)
sluts (4300)
fetishes (4259)
teasing (4170)
sex toys (4132)
collars (4007)
desire (3549)
panties (3440)
control (3387)
rough sex (3375)
romanticism (3235)
transgender (3167)
bruises (3165)
tolerance (3122)
kinky sex (2921)
free speech (2734)
homosexual (2567)
fags (2349)
self expression (2175)
soulmates (2149)
oral (2030)
alternative lifestyles (1932)
bbw (1830)
gay porn (1811)
m.c. escher (1784)
boy meets boy (1759)
body image (1478)
crossdressing (1446)
viggo mortenson (1307)
gender studies (1302)
orgasm (1266)
femmeslash (1181)
cleavage (1153)
straight (1148)
open mindedness (1074)
Unusual
open-minded people (914)
clean sheets (882)
pansexual (840)
asphyxiation (786)
hugs and kisses (779)
transsexual (741)
nudism (674)
heterosexual (665)
coming out (593)
strong women (511)
freedom of expression (510)
gender theory (498)
count of monte cristo (448)
dan savage (399)
amateur porn (391)
erotic literature (376)
androgynous (370)
small breasts (326)
transvestite (240)
gender roles (228)
bsdm (226)
creative expression (216)
large breasts (188)
mindfucks (179)
mind fucks (138)
identity politics (127)
intersexed (115)
pda's (111)
torch songs (103)
coffin nails (97)
homemade porn (94)
hermaphrodite (76)
polysexual (67)
sex-positivity (64)
foot massage (51)
love without limits (51)
long slow kisses (50)
girl slash (41)
beating dead horses (26)
wicked thoughts (11)
Rare
weak men (6)
part-time femmes (2)

Enter username:

InterestRank was bought to you by _imran_ and MemeLand.org


Current Mood: curious
Saturday, September 25th, 2004
11:40 am
[random123]
Spring springs to life
Is my depression lifting?

For the first time in a long while I'm actually feeling something as I sit here stroking myself inside my shorts.

And yes, goddamnit, I do happen to be extremely horny.

Now if only I had somebody to play with! *looks significantly towards Australia*


Ever seen those asinine Viagra commercials, Y - E - S ! ! !



The Passionate Shepherd to His Love



Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Or woods and steepy mountains yield.

And we will sit upon the rocks
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious bird sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
- Christopher Marlowe


Current Mood: jubilant
Sunday, September 5th, 2004
4:14 pm
[thecrucified]
Was It a Dream? - Guy de Maupassant
I found this, gazing through a friend's journal, and it was so beautiful that I had to share it...

I had loved her madly!

Why does one love? Why does one love? How queer it is to see only one being in the world, to have only one thought in one's mind, only one desire in the heart, and only one name on the lips--a name which comes up continually, rising, like the water in a spring, from the depths of the soul to the lips, a name which one repeats over and over again, which one whispers ceaselessly, everywhere, like a prayer.

I am going to tell you our story, for love only has one, which is always the same. I met her and loved her; that is all. And for a whole year I have lived on her tenderness, on her caresses, in her arms, in her dresses, on her words, so completely wrapped up, bound, and absorbed in everything which came from her, that I no longer cared whether it was day or night, or whether I was dead or alive, on this old earth of ours.

And then she died. How? I do not know; I no longer know anything. But one evening she came home wet, for it was raining heavily, and the next day she coughed, and she coughed for about a week, and took to her bed. What happened I do not remember now, but doctors came, wrote, and went away. Medicines were brought, and some women made her drink them. Her hands were hot, her forehead was burning, and her eyes bright and sad. When I spoke to her, she answered me, but I do not remember what we said. I have forgotten everything, everything, everything! She died, and I very well remember her slight, feeble sigh. The nurse said: 'Ah!' and I understood, I understood!

I knew nothing more, nothing. I saw a priest, who said: 'Your mistress?' and it seemed to me as if he were insulting her. As she was dead, nobody had the right to say that any longer, and I turned him out. Another came who was very kind and tender, and I shed tears when he spoke to me about her.

They consulted me about the funeral, but I do not remember anything that they said, though I recollected the coffin, and the sound of the hammer when they nailed her down in it. Oh! God, God!

She was buried! Buried! She! In that hole! Some people came--female friends. I made my escape and ran away. I ran, and then walked through the streets, went home, and the next day started on a journey.

~


Yesterday I returned to Paris, and when I saw my room again--our room, our bed, our furniture, everything that remains of the life of a human being after death--I was seized by such a violent attack of fresh grief, that I felt like opening the window and throwing myself out into the street. I could not remain any longer among these things, between these walls which had inclosed and sheltered her, which retained a thousand atoms of her, of her skin and of her breath, in their imperceptible crevices. I took up my hat to make my escape, and just as I reached the door, I passed the large glass in the hall, which she had put there so that she might look at herself every day from head to foot as she went out, to see if her toilette looked well, and was correct and pretty, from her little boots to her bonnet.

I stopped short in front of that looking-glass in which she had so often been reflected--so often, so often, that it must have retained her reflection. I was standing there. trembling, with my eyes fixed on the glass--on that flat, profound, empty glass--which had contained her entirely, and had possessed her as much as I, as my passionate looks had. I felt as if I loved that glass. I touched it; it was cold. Oh! the recollection! sorrowful mirror, burning mirror, horrible mirror, to make men suffer such torments! Happy is the man whose heart forgets everything that it has contained, everything that has passed before it, everything that has looked at itself in it, or has been reflected in its affection, in its love! How I suffer!

I went out without knowing it, without wishing it, and toward the cemetery. I found her simple grave, a white marble cross, with these few words:

She loved, was loved, and died.


She is there, below, decayed! How horrible! I sobbed with my forehead on the ground, and I stopped there for a long time, a long time. Then I saw that it was getting dark, and a strange, mad wish, the wish of a despairing lover, seized me. I wished to pass the night, the last night, in weeping on her grave. But I should be seen and driven out. How was I to manage? I was cunning, and got up and began to roam about in that city of the dead. I walked and walked. How small this city is, in comparison with the other, the city in which we live. And yet, how much more numerous the dead are than the living. We want high houses, wide streets, and much room for the four generations who see the daylight at the same time, drink water from the spring, and wine from the vines, and eat bread from the plains.

And for all the generations of the dead, for all that ladder of humanity that has descended down to us, there is scarcely anything, scarcely anything! The earth takes them back, and oblivion effaces them. Adieu!

At the end of the cemetery, I suddenly perceived that I was in its oldest part, where those who had been dead a long time are mingling with the soil, where the crosses themselves are decayed, where possibly newcomers will be put to-morrow. It is full of untended roses, of strong and dark cypress-trees, a sad and beautiful garden, nourished on human flesh.

I was alone, perfectly alone. So I crouched in a green tree and hid myself there completely amid the thick and somber branches. I waited, clinging to the stem, like a shipwrecked man does to a plank.

When it was quite dark, I left my refuge and began to walk softly, slowly, inaudibly, through that ground full of dead people. I wandered about for a long time, but could not find her tomb again. I went on with extended arms, knocking against the tombs with my hands, my feet, my knees, my chest, even with my head, without being able to find her. I groped about like a blind man finding his way, I felt the stones, the crosses, the iron railings, the metal wreaths, and the wreaths of faded flowers! I read the names with my fingers, by passing them over the letters. What a night! What a night! I could not find her again!

There was no moon. What a night! I was frightened, horribly frightened in these narrow paths, between two rows of graves. Graves! graves! graves! nothing but graves! On my right, on my left, in front of me, around me, everywhere there were graves! I sat down on one of them, for I could not walk any longer, my knees were so weak. I could hear my heart beat! And I heard something else as well. What? A confused, nameless noise. Was the noise in my head, in the impenetrable night, or beneath the mysterious earth, the earth sown with human corpses? I looked all around me, but I cannot say how long I remained there; I was paralyzed with terror, cold with fright, ready to shout out, ready to die.

Suddenly, it seemed to me that the slab of marble on which I was sitting, was moving. Certainly it was moving, as if it were being raised. With a bound, I sprang on to the neighboring tomb, and I saw, yes, I distinctly saw the stone which I had just quitted rise upright. Then the dead person appeared, a naked skeleton, pushing the stone back with its bent back. I saw it quite clearly, although the night was so dark. On the cross I could read:

Here lies Jacques Olivant, who died at the age of fifty-one. He loved his family, was kind and honorable, and died in the grace of the Lord.



The dead man also read what was inscribed on his tombstone; then he picked up a stone off the path, a little, pointed stone and began to scrape the letters carefully. He slowly effaced them, and with the hollows of his eyes he looked at the places where they had been engraved. Then with the tip of the bone that had been his forefinger, he wrote in luminous letters, like those lines which boys trace on walls with the tip of a lucifer match:

Here reposes Jacques Olivant, who died at the age of fifty-one. He hastened his father's death by his unkindness, as he wished to inherit his fortune, he tortured his wife, tormented his children, deceived his neighbors, robbed everyone he could, and died wretched.


When he had finished writing, the dead man stood motionless, looking at his work. On turning round I saw that all the graves were open, that all the dead bodies had emerged from them, and that all had effaced the lies inscribed on the gravestones by their relations, substituting the truth instead. And I saw that all had been the tormentors of their neighbors--malicious, dishonest, hypocrites, liars, rogues, calumniators, envious; that they had stolen, deceived, performed every disgraceful, every abominable action, these good fathers, these faithful wives, these devoted sons, these chaste daughters, these honest tradesmen, these men and women who were called irreproachable. They were all writing at the same time, on the threshold of their eternal abode, the truth, the terrible and the holy truth of which everybody was ignorant, or pretended to be ignorant, while they were alive.

I thought that SHE also must have written something on her tombstone, and now running without any fear among the half-open coffins, among the corpses and skeletons, I went toward her, sure that I should find her immediately. I recognized her at once, without seeing her face, which was covered by the winding-sheet, and on the marble cross, where shortly before I had read:

She loved, was loved, and died.


I now saw:

Having gone out in the rain one day, in order to deceive her lover, she caught cold and died.


~



It appears that they found me at daybreak, lying on the grave unconscious.

Current Mood: artistic
Thursday, August 19th, 2004
6:56 pm
[nikival]
Darling Niki
I knew a girl named Nikki
I guess u could say she was a sex fiend
I met her in a hotel lobby
Masturbating with a magazine
She said how'd u like 2 waste some time
And I could not resist when I saw little Nikki grind

She took me 2 her castle
And I just couldn't believe my eyes
She had so many devices
Everything that money could buy
She said sign your name on the dotted line
The lights went out
And Nikki started 2 grind

Nikki

The castle started spinning
Or maybe it was my brain
I can't tell u what she did 2 me
But my body will never be the same
Her lovin' will kick your behind
Oh, she'll show u no mercy
But she'll sho'nuff sho'nuff show u how 2 grind

Darling Nikki

Woke up the next morning
Nikki wasn't there
I looked all over and all I found
Was a phone number on the stairs
It said thank u 4 a funky time
Call me up whenever u want 2 grind

Oh, Nikki, ohhhh

come back Nikki, come back
Your dirty little Prince
wanna grind grind grind grind grind grind grind grind grind

{backwards at the end...}
"Hello, how r u? I'm fine
'cause I know that the Lord is coming soon, coming, coming soon"


Current Mood: giggly
Thursday, August 12th, 2004
3:10 pm
[thecrucified]
FRIENDS ONLY

Atrocity Exhibition


Joy Division



The silence when doors open wide
Where people could pay to see inside
For entertainment they watch
his body twist
Behind his eyes he says I still exist
This is the way, step inside
This is the way, step inside
This is the way, step inside
This is the way, step inside

In arenas he kills for a prize
Wins a minute to add to his life
But the sickness is drowned
by cries for more
Pray to God make it quick - watch him fall
This is the way, step inside
This is the way, step inside
This is the way, step inside
This is the way, step inside

This is the way
This is the way
This is the way
This is the way

This is the way,
step inside
You'll see the horrors of a far-away place
Meet the architects of law
face to face
See mass murder on a scale
you've never seen
And all the ones who tried hard
to succeed
This is the way, step inside
This is the way, step inside
This is the way, step inside
This is the way, step inside

And I picked on the whims of
a thousand more
Still pursuing the path
that's been buried
For years of dead woods and jungles and
cities on fire, can't replace
or relate,
can't release or repair -
take my hand,
and I'll show you what was - it will be.


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Current Mood: artistic
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