Interdimensional Erotica by grace mcgrade

Woman is man’s terrestrial link to divinity.  Generously, women have reverberated into the cells and tissues of men, reverberating the abyss of consciousness from which we came, shifting and shimmering inside forever, like a madness. Leaving them aching, brilliantly, with the familiarity of non-existance.  Some women have reclaimed their power to levitate above time, to desert linear thought and fragmented consciousness, to reconvene with the sacred. To exaggerate passion. They remember how to use their nocturnal emissions to draw light out of the dark. They remembered that in their genetic coding, there is a capacity for alchemy, a euphoric bliss that expands and also paralyzes.  Some women know when they are being thought about, spoken about and when they are being masturbated to, particularly when we have allowed for our relationships with people to extend beyond the physical. The partners we collect and then detach from can feel like phantom limbs, like something that got lost in the dark, still there, still itching, but not solidified in flesh. Some of us know how to invite the etheric embodiments of people into our world, how to communicate with the subtle ghosts people leave in our bodies.   I like to make men mad, I like to see their feverous, greedy eyes, their heated, interrupted breath, hungry to digest something unattainable. I like to provoke them with my magnetism and then pull away, drawing back the light in the room.  It’s like the sound of doors unlocking, the jarring, discombobulating potency of powered femininity, something non physical, something holy.  Tell me how it feels, my darling, to be hip deep in a goddess, to be lapping in the waves of a thousand luscious vibrations, each one stronger than the previous.Tell me about the wicked emotions that make you tremor. Tell me about how I terrify you. Tell me what faction of heaven I take you to.  My heart is full of you, my phantom limb, itching in your absence. I think of your scars as exotic tattoos.

Woman is man’s terrestrial link to divinity.

Generously, women have reverberated into the cells and tissues of men, reverberating the abyss of consciousness from which we came, shifting and shimmering inside forever, like a madness. Leaving them aching, brilliantly, with the familiarity of non-existance.

Some women have reclaimed their power to levitate above time, to desert linear thought and fragmented consciousness, to reconvene with the sacred. To exaggerate passion. They remember how to use their nocturnal emissions to draw light out of the dark. They remembered that in their genetic coding, there is a capacity for alchemy, a euphoric bliss that expands and also paralyzes.

Some women know when they are being thought about, spoken about and when they are being masturbated to, particularly when we have allowed for our relationships with people to extend beyond the physical. The partners we collect and then detach from can feel like phantom limbs, like something that got lost in the dark, still there, still itching, but not solidified in flesh. Some of us know how to invite the etheric embodiments of people into our world, how to communicate with the subtle ghosts people leave in our bodies.

I like to make men mad, I like to see their feverous, greedy eyes, their heated, interrupted breath, hungry to digest something unattainable. I like to provoke them with my magnetism and then pull away, drawing back the light in the room.

It’s like the sound of doors unlocking, the jarring, discombobulating potency of powered femininity, something non physical, something holy.

Tell me how it feels, my darling, to be hip deep in a goddess, to be lapping in the waves of a thousand luscious vibrations, each one stronger than the previous.Tell me about the wicked emotions that make you tremor. Tell me about how I terrify you. Tell me what faction of heaven I take you to.

My heart is full of you, my phantom limb, itching in your absence. I think of your scars as exotic tattoos.


If You're Into That by grace mcgrade

I’ll be your strangest friend and your lover and your cosmic mother.  We can turn our family trauma into a three part musical and I’ll give you all the playtime you were deprived of in childhood. If you’re into polyamory, I can introduce you to all seven of me, each one with increasing entertainment value.  I’ll pull jokes out of me like emerald silk and get rich on your laughter.  I’ll give you massages, stroke your hair and read your palm, and even sometimes your mind. I promise to give you a personal tour of the neon underground rivers inside of me. I promise to be delightfully spontaneous and predictably on time. If your bored, I’ll make you pasta while I’m blindfolded, or spend the day hopping on one leg. I’ll nurture your wildest dreams and grant all your wishes when I bat my eyelashes. I’ll be your sleepy morning beach, your nighttime lightning forest. I’ll be your meat, your medicine, your holistic cigarette, your favourite book, your most treasured ring, your flame, your flower. I promise to be your solar powered sex toy, your personal blissed out water gun, your daily micro-dose of ecstasy. We can run away to the desert, to the mountains, to outer space. We can psychedelicize suburbia, we can give the stars new things to sing about, we can conjure up mischief and bathe in chocolate. If you’re into that.   Only if you’re into that.



I’ll be your strangest friend and your lover and your cosmic mother.

We can turn our family trauma into a three part musical and I’ll give you all the playtime you were deprived of in childhood. If you’re into polyamory, I can introduce you to all seven of me, each one with increasing entertainment value.

I’ll pull jokes out of me like emerald silk and get rich on your laughter.

I’ll give you massages, stroke your hair and read your palm, and even sometimes your mind. I promise to give you a personal tour of the neon underground rivers inside of me. I promise to be delightfully spontaneous and predictably on time. If your bored, I’ll make you pasta while I’m blindfolded, or spend the day hopping on one leg. I’ll nurture your wildest dreams and grant all your wishes when I bat my eyelashes. I’ll be your sleepy morning beach, your nighttime lightning forest. I’ll be your meat, your medicine, your holistic cigarette, your favourite book, your most treasured ring, your flame, your flower. I promise to be your solar powered sex toy, your personal blissed out water gun, your daily micro-dose of ecstasy. We can run away to the desert, to the mountains, to outer space. We can psychedelicize suburbia, we can give the stars new things to sing about, we can conjure up mischief and bathe in chocolate. If you’re into that.


Only if you’re into that.



How To Find Happiness During The Collapse Of Western Civilization by grace mcgrade

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We drastically underestimate the soul’s compulsion for inner transformation. The longing to be in a constant state of transmuting, shifting, flashing, glimmering, unstill. The Universe feels this, is this. That's why it provides us with the limitless entertainment of our ever developing stories. That's why we are always revisiting the challenges it sends our way, spiralling back, providing our curious, metamorphic souls with a sporadic, vast range of unpredictable learning. Replenish and expand that desire. Let it make you explore the world, explore someone else's body, explore altered states and heightened emotions. Let it, get high on it, and be aware of it. We are looking for the answers so we can burn them up, get free and dream up better questions.

Stop normalizing pessimism, ignore the factions of reality that require you to dumb down your imagination, or tell you cynicism and nihilism are trendy. These are not Maison Margiela accessories, they are burdens, and contribute to a collective level of negativity that serves no one. Live in a universe of your own invention. Guard against the inclement weather of fear, let the tumult of things like traffic and death and taxes and politics be fossilized in the background. Let the insurmountable opportunity of invisible dimensions seep through you, endlessly. There, the present and future mingle like jumbled mirrors, and sometimes, you can jump through them. Let yourself become immune to regular life, let dancing and candles and intentions precede the laws of physics and logic. Let your ecstatic hope blur the edges of things, and make your only devotion to commit to beauty, to expose your own emotions fearlessly, to be dangerously truthful and heighten curiosity til it makes you overflow.


Wear magic underwear from moss, strawberries and hummingbird feathers. Swim naked at midnight in the abyss of the dirty pacific ocean. Burst into hysteric laughter while having sex. Invent a magic tonic and distribute it to angry family members. Tell your collegues they are characters in your lucid dream. Search for miracles in dingy places. Believe everything you do can be touched by canopies of angels and fairies. Confess feelings always. Be mischievously compassionate. Laugh at the generosity of the sun in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic. Contort your naked body into strange positions in the mirror til you are drunk on absurdity. Rebuild from your muscle memory of paradise. Distribute sparklers and glitter, particularly when it is not appropriate. Compliment yourself out loud and get rich on bliss. Roll naked in dirt.  Try to pay for things in crystals. Resuscitate yourself from the ancient amnesia. Get free.



For Esther by grace mcgrade

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you are the phoenix on the horizon

beyond fathoming

beyond strange

awake where earth meets sea

bounded by traffic on either side

you are a space nymph

an angel incarnate

drawn by fine spun gold

borne of the place where lightning struck venus

a red wilderness split apart by blue flame

anchored only

by the ocean of the impossible

contained by porcelain or glass

with pearl feet that command storms

and a voice that bleeds roses

there will be those

who wish to cage you

who envy your light without eyes to see it

who wish to enrapture your divinity

piercing, quaking

at the sight of your intangible mysticism

they may wrestle your feet to the ground

the way the moon pleads to the stars:

stay put.

but you won’t.

set your spirit free to drift again

upon the starry place

live vividly, truthfully,

in the effervescence of your most opalic fantasies

douse yourself

in the crystallization of every experience possible

screaming for discovery

metamorphosize your wounds

dance madly between tenderness and passion

leave no stone unturned

leave all inhibitions to the racing wind

achieve resolution through revolution

and let streams of star glitter fall in your footprints

when your eyes are tired

of being so wide and so awake

tired of seeing through veils and shattered shadings

tired of leaving light where others only leave shadow

live from your inner eternity,

the starry place,

they will follow.

imagined things by grace mcgrade

He thought about her endlessly.

He thought about how she seemed to carry the furious sun in her mane, and how she had more hair than she needed.

About the continuous redness of her plump lips, always pouting, slightly pursed open, on the brink of gasping something either absurd or profound.

About her cobwebbed eyelashes, concealing her giant topaz colored eyes, always twinkling with secrets and half grins. She was wickedly clever, too clever for anyone’s good. Wickedly funny, fawn eyed and awake.

He could still feel the aura of unreality she wore with her, the weight of her body on his, that made him vibrate and tingle with a sense of strangeness and simultaneous familiarity. They way her kisses clung to his throat like moistened stars.

He sought now, more than ever, to understand the inner workings of her universe, the subtle complexities of her mind. The way she seemed to levitate above reality, atom thin. Her nonchalance was a love spell like no other.

The hum of unmet desire and curiosity grew louder and louder in his chest, projecting him through a kaleidoscope of possibilities, folding in and out of each other like laser origami.

His imagination, which had always been a place of the deepest solace, was no longer enough. He sprung into action, backed by the fiery mass of emotion that she had ignited within him, his heart jerking and pumping from something that finally, wasn’t cocaine.

Uncertain Angel by grace mcgrade

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I believe that by giving problems a name, they tend to manifest themselves and therefore become impossible to get away from. If I remain in quietude they always disappear with enough time. But sometimes they bloom like flowers in my lungs and in a very safe, very soft space I can open my mouth, and they just fly out, like whispered fireflies. When I write them down I can transmute and excoriate them til they become just stories.

My perception of beauty and love has changed.
Sincerity and tenderness are beautiful, kindness is beautiful. Listening and not just hearing is beautiful. Observing and not just seeing is beautiful. It is necessary to remain open and looking for glimpses of the evocative and profound to be beautiful. Happiness and self love are strange new things to me, maintained with great delicacy and awe.

It is necessary sometimes to catch sight of someone immaculate, and exhale, without wanting to grasp them or own them.

The most beautiful and unconditional love is letting things roam wild, and always allowing them to come home without discernment. That’s radical love.

The familiar rigidity and protective layering I built falls away like silk.

I am learning to no longer glamorize people who hurt me, or fetishize my pain because it makes great art. I gave up tying  the fragments of unkind people with my unwavering heart strings, quantumly bound to their holy wars.

I felt a combination of blissful euphoria and deep premonition in my chest. He didn’t feel unsafe or unkind, but there was still an apprehension in my vulnerability, having come from people who couldn’t manage the obscenity of my world.

Sometimes it is safer not to tarnish memories by prolonging relationships. Expectations and emotions are so fluid, and memory can be tarnished by reality. For that instance in space and time it was perfect.

I wonder if his universe is comprised of whispers of me when I’m not there, in license plates and shop signs, coincidences that aren’t coincidences, just echos doused in my name. I wonder if hes sincere, if he has the capacity to see me- really, see me, or if I exist in spectrums of colors that he can’t quite reach. I wonder if I am safe in feeling the depth in him, or if I am just intoxicated by his sporadic evasiveness . If I am playing with fire, if I am letting a tired game enrapture me. The intensity feels familiar, like everything is happening simultaneously.  Lightning from a congruent lifetime, or a hurricane, thrashing, brilliant and warm.Like I am with the sky I was built from. It shapes me into something softer. Even with holes and missing parts, he aims for my heart with near perfect agility. I want to build a celestial clinic around him, immortalized by time, comprised of the stars, suns and nebulas that remind me of him, because his spirit is too bright for his body,


The Shadow Side by grace mcgrade

I wasnt born afraid of the dark, but rather homesick for other realms, at an unnverving and slightly inhuman frequency. I grew into a protective layering myself, feeling shamed, shaped and shackled by the grueling apparatus of societal illusion. In adulthood, hungry to reclaim the individuality that was stolen from me at birth. Learning to unlearn.

I have a propensity to collect people who live in the shadows, who bear no infatuation or affinity for the idealism that is so prevalent in my character. I experience an allure for people who are contaminated by inner turmoil. I believe that there is always a faction of ourselves which lives above the artifice of time and physicality, the all knowing version of self, the higher self. I am starting to understand that the people who live their lives in the shadow, have elected to. They have done so, so we can differentiate from light and dark. They have chosen it and they are the true warriors.

Without darkness someone(else) can’t have light, so they choose to live it and that is the true work, the dark work, those are the bravest souls, because a part of them has already come from harmony. Darkness is sacred, and lives in every one of us.

I feel like everyone has to interact with their shadow in some capacity, or else it runs rampant, concocting all sorts of sordid scenarios for life to throw at us, brewed of our own blood. Honor the discord so it doesn’t exist in the peripheral.

I have a dark shadow, and I love her, the adverse to my optimism, this catastrophic, uncontained, wrath that belongs to my polarity. Lilith, the dark feminine.

I am getting so drunk on optimism, that I hardly recognize myself. Sometimes it feels dissociative, like I have new neural pathways that feel foreign, and inside there is a punk rock teenager who has her arms folded and thinks “stop with the hippie shit”, but I still have irrepressible feral tendencies,  I assure her, like only wanting to wear black and wanting to projectile vomit on everyone at erewhon. I am bored of surface level. I am bored of being weak, trying to make myself smaller, meaker, stupider, for anyone else's comfort. I am silent in more occasions, solely because I refuse to summon any energy for participating in bland or uninformed conversations. I want to have the room to unravel, unfold and love as openly and wholly as I can. I am not easy in any respect, I have a habit of being inappropriately absurd. I have a hyperactive imagination and I like flirting with my perception of reality on a daily basis. I get high on cognitive dissonance. I am evasive and hard to capture or get a hold of.


Sometimes anger feels the best. I’ve noticed when I’m not getting enough intimacy, I will replace it with intensity. Aggression and conflict as a way to connect. Like some distorted love making. A tempestuous, volcanic orgasm.  I am great at it. Fury is sacred. Anger gets shit done. There is something inherently sexy about conflict, the unbuttoned reveal of dark, innermost feelings.. the below the belt jabs and sharp, lightning-fast magnetitude in tempered words.  

My shadow is calculated, attention seeking, feral and destructive. She writes about people she doesn’t like and then publishes it. She has a limitless propensity to collect secrets. She falls in love with people who are unstable. She leaves doors to the past unhinged. She has, on several occasions, made out with her ex’s friends while they were within a two room vicinity, hoping to get caught. She likes to stay out til four, to not text back, to chainsmoke. And of course, in her fullest form, she likes to assign paramount meaning to meaningless, and unhealthy flings. She attracts partners who act out her shadow for her, and likes to pick up their broken pieces and examine them. Dissect them, psychoanalyze them. Romanticize them. She gets addicted to the cinematic toxicity of people, who are like fairy tale characters. Only existing to serve as an aquatic mass she loses herself in.

She is an immaculate faction of me, whose appearance is less and less frequent- but I value her hunger for power and spontaneity and I would much prefer to integrate her than dismiss her, because even in darkness she is celestial.



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The Alien, The Cowboy and The Witch (PART FOUR) by grace mcgrade

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Parts 1, 2 and 3 in previous posts

They hit the whisky highway with more questions than they had started with, the yellow mercedes leaving sand tempests at it's heels, projecting them towards Las Vegas. In potent silences, they eyed each other like movies, or deja vu, Adam in his hospital gown and Elle in leather and periwinkle blue. There was a silent unease growing in the spaces between them. Elle assigned this to the fact that they hadn’t made love in two days, which always made her cerebral and hostile. He was so difficult for her to read, this strange boy, insomniac scorpio thing. If he didn’t give her enough compliments or attention, she would curse him with oppressive silence. She was growing increasingly unsettled by his inability to hold a philosophical or intelligent conversation. She felt like this gave her license for withdrawal, to reduce him in her mind.


Simultaneously, they could feel each other growing more and more fond of the other. Elle was afraid her power would be weakened by the emotional energy that seeped out, spent on someone who wasn’t sober enough to appreciate her rarity. Sometimes she felt like he couldn’t fully see her, like her soul had gotten lost or mistranslated in his eyes , like she was an inhuman frequency, or a color few could perceive. But still, deep within her was a need to know him, in every hue and every scent, to experience all of his emotions and know his aversions and appetites. She wanted to wake up to him every morning, all swollen and new, even when he maniacally checked his phone for the first waking hour. She didn’t feel safe enough to divulge these emotions, so instead, she remained distant. Her thoughts bloomed like flowers in her lungs, and she prayed that they didn’t fly out, like whispered fireflies.


Vegas was Elles nightmare; a Disneyland for sad, drunk adults. She noticed all the occult symbols used to advertise hedonism and excessive spending, and she felt like she was in a twisted simulation. A video game set in hell.  If she ever needed any more reason to hate america, she would always think of Vegas.

Adam had a different experience of the place, as it had been a playground for him in the past five years that his dad had lived there. He wanted to lighten the mood that hung heavily from Maureen’s impending death, and suggested that he and Elle spend a night on the town.

They jolted from casino to casino, each in a varying shade of neon and excess, her palm clinging on to his cast. It was like traveling from reality to reality, a perverse version of Greece to Venice in miniture.

They couldn’t gamble or go to nightclubs, as they were both under 21, so they loitered around a bar at the Venetian.  Elle had been too flirtatious with a man who claimed to have worked for the FBI, and she half wanted to know all his secrets and half wanted to provoke Adam’s jealousy, so suggested they both go upstairs to his room. Adam sat in silence while they talked for what seemed like hours, in some kind of conspiratal code, about elections and shadow governments. He felt neglected, the only reason they were in Vegas in the first place was so they could support his Dad, and here she was, blatantly ignoring him. It was a night he wanted to be special and she had ruined it, in her never ending quest for answers and attention. They abused their luck by drinking too much, and ended the evening in an explosive argument.  


Elle couldn’t remember all the details, but she knew something was wrong when they woke up, barely speaking a word. Rather than take accountability for her actions, she silently blamed the sequence of the night before as “Vegas Energy” and attempted to pretend like nothing happened. Adam was withdrawn and distant.


The solemn and melancholic atmosphere in Adam’s Dads house was a jarring reality check.

Elle was to return to Los Angeles while Adam consoled his father. Before she left, they both went to say goodbye to Maureen. Even in her last moments, she was beautiful. She looked at both of them, her eyes almost beckoning from a place beyond the veil. “ I like you two together.” She whispered, in the last sentence she would ever say to the both of them.


They both couldn’t contain their emotions, and sat together, arm in arm, crying. Their sweat mingled with tears in the humidity. Elle felt stupid, having fought over things that seemed so meaningless, and there was a guilt in her belly that made her feel sick. For the first time in what seemed like eons, she returned to Los Angeles, her heart more heavy and simultaneously more full, twisted into strange contortions, like a clenched first.

It took him a week to come back and meet her. He returned to her apartment, bearing a gift of two tiny voodoo dolls. One for each of them. She misplaced his in her room, an omen she recognized before the night it all unravelled. They went out, and Adam got drunker than Elle had ever seen him. He sat on other girls laps, haphazardly falling over people with his casts. She waited til they were in the car to shame and scold him, now almost as inebriated as he was. He could barely drive, and she repeatedly asked him to pull over so she could call a car. He didn’t.

By some miracle, they managed to park a few blocks away from her apartment. He said he would sleep in the car. He wanted her gone, out of his space.  She demanded that she be at least dropped off where she lived, so she didn’t have to walk home alone in the dark at four a.m. She resolved that she would pull up to her own house.

“If you put the keys in the ignition, I’ll kick you.” He said, his words slurred. Elle was never one to turn down a challenge, and looked him up and down, with his feeble boyish legs and arm casts, and turned the keys into the car. Just to see what would happen.

It was a sharp moment of exhaustion, appeasement and annihilation. He thumped her in the back with his foot, slammed his casts against her arms and legs, pulled her out of the car- and her heart shattered into a million fragments against the concrete, where her body lay, shocked, motionless.

She did what she learned time and time again: Get up. They cannot have what you have.

She began storming to her apartment and he swiftly followed, begging for forgiveness.
It wasn’t until they returned to her bedroom, adorned with magical items, that the gravity of what he had done hit her. She lay in bed with him and started to violently jab him in the chest with her elbow. She cried. “I trusted you, I looked after you.” He shot up out of the door to leave, screaming and clamoring. It was half an hour before they had both calmed down, and to equate for the amount of violence, they had sex. The deranged, carnal intensity was their aphrodisiac.


There is no normal way to respond to violence, and both of them came from a lineage of it, where rage was misplaced often. The grief, the potency of everything they had experienced, combined with Adam’s painkillers and alcohol- was a fatal concoction. When Elle woke up, he left. It was the day of Steve’s memorial. She put a sweater over her bruises. Her flesh ached, but she knew she would heal. It was tolerable agony compared the the layer of ashes and embers that left imprints on her heart. She felt a part of herself decay before her very eyes. She felt as though her cells were being torn in half.


She called her friend, Laz, who was the only person with whom she didn’t feel unprotected and unheard. He listened, with kindness and love in his clear blue eyes. They resolved the only way to treat such horrible heart ache was to go and reconvene with the earth. He accompanied her to the memorial and they embarked on a trip to Joshua Tree. They camped on what looked like the surface of the moon, and he consoled her with music and a rare kind of compassion, the kind she hadn’t seen in months.

On the drive back, she poked, jokingly at her bruises, thinking they looked like Jupiter.

It was a few weeks before her sadness alchemized to fury, upon hearing of Adam’s behavior with other girls. Memories circulated around her head like a library she couldn't escape from. The flashes of possibilities of where their love could go expiried around her, like the debris of crumbling walls. He had ruined all of the miracles, tainted them with his indulgent rage. She didn’t love him anymore but she wanted to take him into hell. She wanted to keenly memorise the architecture of his fears and watch him crumble. She decided dating him was like dating a human escape room, or like quickly, drunkenly, gorging on a giant burrito and feeling it inside her for days...Or playing an indie playlist on Spotify, and deciding actually, no, she wanted  to skip through most of these songs and why the fuck did she ever assume there were any good ones?

She realized she had invited hell into her own bed, and had mingled and meshed with a mirage of a person. She had internalized and vitalized this demon, slept with it, nurtured it, fed it and wept with it, worst of all- shared the luminous material inside of her. In a moment of hysteria, the betrayal pulsed through her blood and the currents in her body, like cancerous lightning. She grabbed her darkest candle and headed straight outside for the moon.

Usually in moments like this, on the lip of oblivion or unwise action, Elle’s ethics would pull her back from mixing magic with madness. But in the pit of desperation, her rage infused with her priestess spirit, like poison.  She very deliberately cursed Adam for the pain he had caused her. She wanted to hurt him just to make sure he had insides.