Vexed

(painting by Sas Christian)

Retaliation. Decapitation. Justice.

I'm looking at my beautiful vexed face in the rear-view mirror and mull over the irony that has led me to this.

 I, the only human being capable of lifting whole cities with my mind, causing death in every step, manipulating thousands of people with one thought, I, a fuckin' super hero, sitting behind this wheel stuck in a traffic jam, watching the old lady with the pink hair apply nail polish in the car next to me.
Why am I tolerating this?
Why don't I order them to drive their car over the cliff and be done with it? Why am I wrinkling this immaculate forehead thinking of their pitiful lives? All I have to do is close my eyes slowly and connect with their decadent minds, plant the idea that they would get faster wherever they are going by jumping off the cliff on the left and then sit back and watch the street empty right in front of my stormy eyes.

I would and I could...if I wasn't such a Nice. Girl.

Like Spiderman said before me; (and I quote): "With great power comes great responsibility", I am trying to be in control here, to be responsible...it is hard, damn hard it is.

I am rolling down the window, I need some fresh salty air to caress my face, God how beautiful I am, so powerful, and my lips...look at my lips and my make up...flawless. I didn't do it of course. I walked inside a MAC store and ordered the make up artists to do it, nails and all, all with my mind and I didn't pay of course; it was the manager's thank you gift for visiting his shop. He felt so happy to take care of me. Yes, I planted that idea too. I know you can't see my clothes but they were a gift too and the shoes...see the ring? It is platinum, another gift from...what's-his-name? that actor that I spent the night with....he plays in the new X-Men movie...he does Xavier? Oh I don't remember his name..he left the whole family behind and flew all the way from Europe for me...because I sent him brain waves to which he felt compelled to obey...I'm fuckin' Jean (X-Men Jean), I am a GODDESS!

And a Goddess has to be merciful first and foremost.

All this anxiety brings me mental pain, right here behind my right ear...
 I am going to give them a small push, just to get them going...juuuuust a little, when the light turns green....

MOVE NOW GET OUT OF MY WAY
MOVE OR I WILL HAVE YOU JUMP INTO THE OCEAN
MOOOOOOVE! MOOOOOOVE! MOOOOOOOOVE!

- Calm down honey it's going to be alright now, no need to shout, the other girls want to watch too....no don't pull the bandages away....easy girl. You pulled your ear off its socket remember? You almost bled to death... There is nothing left there to pull honey...

- MOOOOOOOOVE! MOOOOOOOVE!

- Security! You need to listen to me now..open your mouth....aaaata girl, now swallow.   Let me see....open your mouth princess..... good. Now if you calm down I'll untie your hands...here you can watch X-Men one more time....

All the things they left unsaid.

(painting by Jean Francois de Troy)

Despite the love, the kind words,
his promises, his lies,
I keep getting lost in thoughts
that sting me like Autumn flies.

When was the last time he bathed...in liquid,
when did he last take off that wig,
last night's dinner I can still see under his nails,
chicken with sweet caramelised fig.

It's not that I bathe all that often,
once a fortnight, twice... sometimes,
but he stinks like a wild boar,
what have I done to edure such crimes....

I want to shout...
"Oh have a bath",
"Get your figgy hand off me",
I'd rather take the dog to bed",
"I'd rather bed the queen herself!"...

I smile and pull back to avoid the stench
I wish his hand I could forcefully wrench,
For the love of God I need some air,
such torment is just not fair.

Till death do us part...

  FRED: the alive/ mortal groom.

"Some people are white

while others are black.

Some women are thin and some are really fat.

People are different,

 to that we agree,

well, my bride is dead,

 as dead as can be.

I knew that right from day one

she never, ever tried to hide that fact,

and I loved her even for that.

My bride is dead...and so what?

Her lips are cold,

I can see through her back.

She can't breathe, she can't eat

but her kiss is sweet

and so is her heart.

Being with her makes me feel so secure,'cause I know I can never endure, black, wet death tearing us apart.

Her being already deceased, 

means my hidden fear is at rest,

my sweet bride is Oh so dead,

death is conquered,

I have deceived death!                                                          

"The people around me are over- upset,

they can't perceive the major advantages of a bride that is dead.

No food nor drink, no ambitions

                     within,

subtleness, silence, obedience,

no desire for luxuries nor flirting from other men,

who in the world would desire a bride that
her ribs are hard to hide...

                    

"They say: Fred! The woman is dead,

worms come crawling out of the crown

                  of her head!

I say: Hold you tongue, you ignorant men,

she's more alive and caring than all of your                       

brides together when we are alone in bed!
To that they frowned, everybody knows
the turn-on of bedding the undead!

Today the church bells ring for Berenice and I,
my joy I cannot hide,
and those of you who ask why,
I tell you this,
the dead cannot lie and are not afraid to die!

BERENICE: the rotting / dead  bride.

 "I feel my insides rot,

but it's not my fault,

I wasn't meant to die,

and dead people can never lie.

He says death on me looks eerie and sweet,

he says he loves the gaping holes on my skin,

the worms racing around my heart,

he says he loves me even for that.

Being with him makes me forget,

the torture of knowing that I am all dead.

The darkeness, the distance,

the fear, the disgust,

the  craving for darkness

and the blood lust.

I want to forget

that my breath is all spent,

I want to let go of the dread, the despair,

that I will be labelled as a worthless undead.

This life feels like the echo

of my life that was,

the colours are dimmed,

the sounds are all hushed.

Tastes and textures

were left in the grave,

I give him a soft laugh,

 and pretend it's the same.

Dead....Dread............Fred, tells me it's fine,

he will love me so, till the end of his time.

With flowers and perfumes, lace and satin scarves,

he covers my holes and the constant smell of dust.

He says I have jumped out of a poem of Poe,

worthy only for Vampire Lestat,

he buys me raw meat, and liver and heart,

I wish I could cry, Oh how I wish I could do that..."

I look at myself in the mirror,
this wedding dress is a bit large.
I turn around and hear the rib snap,
it tears the white silk,
the worms pour out like sour milk,
and breathe fresh air at last.

(photo by SamuraiChopStick)

                                                                                                                                  

Love lives on though Amelia is dead.

(photo by Oer-Wout)

I knew he would come for me,

that he wouldn't let go.

A love like that is not easily forgotten,

not when two souls merge and feel as one.

But I couldn't be with him,

not anymore,

he made me feel like I wasn't myself,

my once crystal dreams had blurred.

He shattered them with promises, plans and demands,

he made me feel drained,

a lifeless shadow behind his fiery passion, and darkest heart.

I couldn't breathe, I couldn't feel,

I had to leave,

and so I did.

The whole Kingdom whispered that this would mean my death,

betrayal always has the smell of blood,

so I knew the day was near,

when he would take away everything I hold dear,

my golden youth, my fairy dreams,

his eyes when his seas are calm,

his flesh against my heart.

But though I knew, I just went on,

playing my happy song on the guitar,

singing along,

under the Poplar tree,

the tree of Death,

Hades' beloved tree.

My feet are turning blue in the winter stream.

"Oh, how I dream of countries far and wide,

to see them all before I die,

I am so young and fair and true,

my sons shall sing my happy tune.

Oh, mother Earth and Oceans wide,

I feel your tide rising inside,

Oh! Gods believe me,

I do not lie...

I do not wish to die"

My tear as cold as the melting snow, maybe I have already died.

I saw him from the corner of my eye,

my gleaming Prince holding his sword.

He had left his white steed not far behind,

the killing wouldn't take him long.

His once blue eyes were red and bloody,

stormy rings encirled both,

his skin was pale,

his lips looked dead and ash clouded his hair,

his clothes were torn, the gold was covered in blood,

what have you done,

my love,

what have you done...

-Amelia, you knew I'd find you... why did you linger?

He drew his sword and stood before me,

I felt its cold steel on my neck.

-Why did you leave me...WHY?

I did not speak then, I stood before the tree,

 closed my eyes and heard the water

gurgling through the mud and stones,

happy and free.

-Speak! Tell me why!

 His rusty breath filled my lungs,

I heard fiery wrath shattering the remnants of his heart.

- I want to be what I was meant to be,

not a figment of your dream.

I won't obey your commands,

that is not what true love does.

-If I can't have you, nobody will.

 Witch!

You shall taste my steel and wrath.

THIS is what true love does.

The coldest blade broke into my spine,

Amelia was no more alive,

and as I watched myself bleed,

I heard my old Prince weep,

not with remorse, not with relief.

He pushed his face in the gash

and drank my unfairly, spilt blood,

each drop a wail, a cry,

until my body ran dry.

But love lives on,

beyond Hades' halls,

loves lives on

among the dead souls,

He'll come to me,

soon enough,

love lives on,

beyond death and wrath.



Incantation: Anathema narthis semena

(photo by Eireen)

"Anathema narthis semena.

      The rash of Job,

 Jonah's sea monster,

Jehova's leprocy,

the decay of the Dead,

the trembling of the heart-broken,

the drums and thunders of Hell,

the curses and anathemas of men,

Anathema narthis semena...."

Eyes closed, she whispered the words, with trembling hands she held the bottle and muttered with all her might:

"Anathema narthis semena"

Still a small voice inside her kept asking if all this was worth the trouble.
She was scared and tired and lost and what more was there to be done but this.
She would take her chances and be all that she can be, a witch, the devil,
the one to change the course of history, and die for it.
She had grown sick of her weaknesses and her desires; fears and dreams.
So melodramatic, yet factual.
She smiled and knelt on the stone floor.
She will have to focus if she wants this to work.
No more games with potions and lotions,
this is the real thing,
the Power.
All she has to do is to repeat the incantation until it blends with the air inside her lungs and the winds around her.
A green light shone within her trembling palms,
she lost all focus, her eyes rolled inside their sockets and then,
 she saw:

She was standing on a high platform, grey clouds were running fast above her.
Thousands upon thousands of people below her, all calling her name.
She saw the rain falling on her cloak and on her feet but she felt nothing,
neither its moisture on her face nor the smell of the wet earth.

Then she spread her arms and flew up above,
above the clouds and the rain, where the sun shone the brightest,
but still no warmth penetrated her skin, as if standing behind a frozen glass, trapped, she felt nothing.
She wanted to feel the fear, the terror and the despair but none came and then the image of a son;
she should go to him to feel.

So she flew to the place where she called home and the boy opened the door, all dressed in velvet,
his face froze and his eyes went blank as they fell upon her,
he turned around and never looked back,
and still she felt nothing, no anger, no despair, no sorrow.
She entered the house and walked around,
the thick carpet lost an inch each time she stepped upon it,
and everyone bowed as she crossed their path, none looked at her in the eyes,
heads low, perhaps of disgust, but she did not care to ask.

The tall floor mirror stood against the wall at the far end of the corridor.
A lavinshly made looking glass,
with a gold gilded frame.
She stood in front of it and looked across.

A tiny scream echoed in the vaults of her mind and as it grew louder she pierced the reflection with her eyes,
and tried to perceive what was the thing she saw.

Herself an open wound, a leper, an abomination,
her hands old and rotten, wet with pus and slime,
her eyes empty, sockets dry and flaky,
her red hair was no more and in its place her skull shone like a wet stone.
A walking dead, a rotting corpse.
She opened her mouth to catch a breath
and black gore ran out and fell on the floor.

Dead yet alive,
weak yet strong
her youth, her life, all gone.

The sound of breaking glass brought her back,
her hands had let go.
His face, his lovely eyes had pierced her soul,
she wanted this no more.

(This bloodless story was written for Anna, a dear friend and fellow reader,
 who wished for something without blood but with all the rest that my stories have.
 I hope she finds this to her satisfaction.)                                                       

Give me your heart (The Queen of Hearts)

                                  
                           

"How do you feel when you break the meaty surface with your teeth?"

"Do you chew or merely swallow?"

"Do you suck its juice or let it drip?"

"How old are you, really?"

"Who makes your dresses?"

She took a deep breath of pleasure and closed her eyes. More than 100 heart beats were celebrating her first appearance in public. She looked at the woman in the front row, the one who asked about the dresses.

"My dresses are my own designs" her metallic voice rang, "A friend makes them for me and in return

I give her something small to yearn.

You over there! My pretty girl you seem to have a soft heart. Come closer,

I won't give you a start."

There was laughter in the room.

"The rituals I perform, the hearts that I consume,

keep me young and warm,

for more than you can possibly assume."

The woman sat at her feet and touched the hem of her dress,

she adored her, like the rest of the press.

Flashes all around her, she turned on the left to show her paler side.

"I have a freezer to keep them fresh, however I must confess,

there's no more room left...what should I do...

where to keep them, my house is full!"

"In the basement!"

"Down the shute!"

They shouted to her amazement,

they all had what it took.

"We love you, we love you..."

"I have your tattoo.."

"RIP MY HEART OUT TOO!!!"

More people had come,

they begged her for more,

she waved an ivory hand,

 to those who screamed at the back.

"What do I do with a freshly harvested heart?

I boil and bake and fry and stuff,

some I eat raw, I enjoy that part."

The crowd grew restless, they had come for more after all.

She closed her eyes and stood up, hands outstretched, she looked up above.

A musical voice escaped her lips:

GIVE ME YOUR HEART
GIVE ME YOUR HEART
OR I"LL RIP IT APART

One by one their chests slowly bled, with knives and forks and nails and chairs.

It was no easy job, after all!

One helped the other on this gruesome task,

nobody screamed, they all laughed.

The red glistening balls

 made a heap on the floor.

Blood splattered on the walls,

they all fell smiling like broken dolls.

She stepped down to the heap of hearts,

and lay upon them like a small girl sleeping on the grass.

"Now where to put them all..." she muttered sadly

 and took a bite from the ripest, bloody ball,

 deep in thought and contemplation.

photo by Natalie Shau

Stunning she was... (The Herald came)



.....but wicked and evil. She had blood in her hands and in her hair and she sat there in front of her mirror smacking her lips and licking the tips of her fingers.

She had killed yet another. Hearing movement behind the door, she threw her shawl around her throat and glided towards the door...room service.

The young man walked inside unafraid and unarmed because he knew something she did not..that he was already dead.....

He walked inside and stood before her with a wide smile drawn on his rosy lips.
This made her feel unprecedented unease.
"What can I do for you young man. You are foolishly brave to have come." She said softly and assumed her  pose sitting on her chair.
She pulled her shawl away from her round breasts, yet left it hang and crossed her ivory legs
slowly.
The young man walked behind her chair,
and leaned right beside her head.
She looked in the mirror to catch a glimpse of his face and terror overwhelmed her..there was no face to behold.
She swirled at him with ready claws, to rip, to tear his face, to gulp his eyeballs whole, though she felt full, indeed, and met The Mouth, a huge, black gaping hole.
It was rotten and reeking and huge. It covered her face and sucked her in.
She pulled back, and tried to pull the head apart.
But it was too late. She heard it suck her in; her beauty, the stolen blood, her flesh.
Its poison melted her cheekbones and drilled into her marrow.

Her heart reached her mouth. He pulled it right out.

Her shawl fell on the floor; there was a throat no more to hold it on.
Scarlet spewing from her throat's hollow, she staggered towards the sill,
decapitated, not yet lifeless,
there was no thrust, only disgust,
when she tried to grasp where was once her head.

The Herald left as he had come,
the deed was done....

PART II

      Stunning she was,

      but she should have known that competition was getting rough,

she should have left for a while, not stay and laugh,
at the face of what was yet to come.

Thousands upon thousands of beasts feed on human flesh,

all  thirsty and hungry and cold,
without a trace of a soul.

They roam the streets night and  day  enslaving our minds, ensnaring our bodies, our senses, devouring our souls..

When one of them is on the loose,

the Herald is brought to set things straight,

Its Mouth is never late

it feeds upon familiar hate, its own kind without remorse.

From the bloody womb of the Earth's core,

the Herald feeds on rotting gore,

but when he doesn't get his share,

he rises above and settles his score.

Dregs

          

         What am I looking...what I am looking for,

but the truth inside the dregs.

How long will I live for,

how will I die,

where will I go,

will I meet somebody, anybody new,

will my plans fall through,

or will I fail to succeed,

which I want to believe

is not meant for me?

The dregs, the dregs will tell me...let me see...

I see a cross, a white large cross,

which is good.

 A ceremony, a wedding perhaps,

all in good mood.

What's that black thing over there...

Oh..it's a crow...bad news,

I knew that.... I swear,

and a tall man will come to me, he'll say things..

oh! he holds a key!

A key to a locked door...

that was what I was hoping for!

And who's that woman over there?

With raven hair...she has a child in her care..?

That could be me, I guess that's true,

but she looks so old and dark and blue!

That's not me! I'm young and fresh.

No..no..she's definitely someone else!

The dregs sometimes go very wrong,

the cup is dark...this takes too long...

The black blobs around the brim have come to pass..

there's the money I owe and the money I'll get back at long last,

a very narrow road lies straight ahead,

perhaps my fortune is hidden there instead.

The middle blobs will make me weep...

...a dear friend is bound to leave..

But what's that at the bottom of the cup,

where the affairs closer to the heart lie flat?

A gory tale will meet its fiery end,

and will eventually be sent.

(This will come to pass

 when I find the time to write at last)

The dregs have spoken once more,

I'd better go see who's at the door...

Anticipation (Anna was waiting)

Anna was waiting for a knock on the door.

It was dark but for the fire which roared at her feet.

The flames licked the logs and cracked loudly.

Her small hands curled tightly on her lap,

they desperately needed some blood,

so white they were.

The grandfather clock in the corner

ticked the seconds away,

each a month, each a lifetime apart,

past midnight, past Christmases and summers

and birthdays and lunches.

Drizzle tapped on the window,

the logs cracked loudly and the grandfather clock banged,

twice at every breath

but Anna waited stubbornly

for a knock on the door.

She could have shaken the fire,

could have watched the rain fall,

could have winded the clock..

But she was furiously waiting for a knock on the door.

head jerked to the left...was that a tap or a knock?

Her chair creaked, her skirts swished,

her small creamy hand curled around the brass, round knob.

She let out some air,

and invited it in.

The whirlpool in the sink and the stolen car (in the dead of night)

Dead tired she was

with a ton of things on her mind,

all she wished for was sleep

yet she couldn't find the strengh

to leave the dishes behind.

So she washed and she scrubbed,

until all was really clean,

then she pulled out the plug,

and stared at the whirlpool in the sink.

When even that was gone,

she headed for bed,

thinking intensively

of what she could have done instead.

She could butcher her husband in the dead of night,

she can eat her children alive,

she could go to a weird bar,

in a brand new stolen car,

and flay the patrons alive.

Her eyes closed fast,

she was sleeping at last,

her subconscious self,

armed her with a machine gun instead.

She won battles, she killed armies,

and her boss and the grocer,

nothing but a loser and a tosser,

she had stolen the car,

and had gone to the weirdest freaking bar,

her husband was there dressed as a nun.

She was laughing out loud

they were having some fun,

then she started to run,

all the way to the sun!

There's nothing better indeed,

than a good night's sleep,

to let out some steam,

in a wild and bloody paranoid,

sweet and sour dream.

Goodnight.



Painting by William E. Rochfort

the singing buttler

Trying hard not to fall,

What am I thinking?

I follow his steps.

Bloody rain, bloody baron, bloody song.

Raindrops the size of golf balls blur my eyes,

the silk dress is soaked, my ruined hair whips my cheek,

he's insane, look at the maid weep.

The bag...the bag is at her feet.

He sings all wrong, I can't hear a word,

Keep focused, the bag is all you want.

The stuff inside will make you rich

I hope he slips and breaks his hips.

I'll catch a cold, my feet are sore,

I am frozen to the core.

A turn of a screw is all I need

to make him fall, to steal the bling.

I watched him take it from the bank

Napoleon's necklace,

he'll sell it for some land,

the stupid baron of royal rank.

Three hundred diamonds belong to me

romantic bastard bedding ME.

I think the song is about to end.

-Let's get off this roof sweet darling, I am all spent..

take me inside, warm me up,

send these people away, we don't need them

...it's alright, look, I'll carry the bag.