From Iceland — Horror-Scopes: Out, Damned Pot!

Horror-Scopes: Out, Damned Pot!

Published June 18, 2021

Horror-Scopes: Out, Damned Pot!
Hannah Jane Cohen
Photo by
Adobe Stock

The wand’ring sheep did call the Grapevine Astrology Guilde together, who hast not kindled their flames together since delivering Sophia herself back to the Heav’ens. Ho! Let us joine now with those that condense thousands of years of words and slang into one spiritual reading.


Arise, ye Aries! And fear not that the end of this mask-mandate means those ne’er-do-wells will once again judge yer shit lipstick skills. Nei, dear cleric, the facepaint ye don is apotheotic. Let the Gods watch!


Naked ye was borne and naked ye will exit ye pandemic, ya harlot! Back to the shadows with yer floozy ways b’fore the wrath does rain from above, we decree. And by wrath, we mean an ill-fated romance with a Scorpio. Fetch the leeches! Illness approaches!


The bards did sing of yer conquests, Gemini, when they did look at the stars. I prithee, my peerless paramour, that ye do follow yer loins this coming month. The stars guide ye. As do yer loins. What ho!


“Whence comest thou?” the gent said. But ye did not come. Ye never did come with him…


Out, damned pot! The time of 420 is over! Nei, this here June, grab a mead and head out of yer isolation to an alehouse! Down in Canaan, the seers say the rivers flow red with wine. Methinks, a good start for a pilgrimage and a romp in the holy hay.


The abbey is nei place for a maiden such as yerself, Virgo. While Mans first Disobedience brought the Fruit of that Forbidden Tree and Death into the World, the death of yer new espresso machine need not Joynd with that Eternal Servant to create Hideous Ruine and Bottomless Perdition. So Break your Chains and Extinguish the Penal Fire, for there is no Shame in a cup of Filtered Coffee. As He sings:
“Better reign in watery swill than to serve in caffeine-induced suppression.”


Half-sick of shadows? Say not, fair Libra, for already the Romans approachest to sadden a Goth such as yerself. We cannot have ye so down, so leave the dark, leave the loom, make three paces through the room and blast your best Type O Negative. Ye are not in Shalott; ye is in Reykjavík and the only curse that is upon ye is yer damned low self-confidence.


Look here, Scorpio: If ye want a new friend, don’t speak to them in an unknown tongue. For we wish none but a new plague upon thee who speak pretentiously! Besthrew those who utter “Well, actually…”! They vassals, we say!


Listen closely to yer arrowsmith. Yer half-way there.


This month ye might beg for alms from a former flame. She will not give. Aye—there’s the rub.


Lo! The folk-kings and princes did display their prowess-in-battle, but none compares to the belovèd bairn of the Aquariuses. Yes, yer children will inherit all that the Earth has to give, but ye will not be so lucky. Take yer coin out of the Bit lest misfortune hit. AMC to the heavens.


Sing your paean, Pisces.

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