Wednesday, 26 March 2014

A mirage

Some people think the grass is greener elsewhere. They are in a world of mirages and think they have chosen a horrible swamp or a hellish desert. They fail to see the oasis within. Anyone is better than their partner, their kindred spirit awaits somewhere else, surely. Anyone can be smarter, more beautiful, funnier, sexier, more generous. Of course they will be because their partner is drained and is at a loss, not knowing what else to do to be appreciated for once. The others do not have those worries, they are at their best moment and, knowingly or not, cast before their eyes a veil of perfect deception.

There is a sense of satisfaction in insulting the one at their side and going for the milk and honey that is just round the corner. I wonder, to those people, how is the search for their kindred spirit going? How does the continuous biting of sand feel like once the mirage dissapears? The scorching sensation during the day and the cold, cold nights with nobody to compliment them or love them like they once were loved? Nobody to call them beautiful? They may repeatedly run towards the shining crystal clear waters in the distance but it will always end the same way. Every time they take a plunge to refresh their skin and slake their perpetual thirst, burning sand will embrace them and snakes will hiss at their exhausted limbs.

How is the curvy lady that intrigued you with her naked tapestry and multiple piercings? How is the cheap Harley Quinn impersonator who actually looked like The Joker? Did her stupidity turn you on or was it her bigger tits in her peasant's figure? Her plain face? Her greedy blank soul? How is the biker who never loved you or gave a fuck about you but is still friends with you on social networks? Did her fake alternative image rock your boat? Her absent waist? Her narcissism? Her manufactured style and again, her deep plainness? What about the buck-toothed fuck monster you shagged in a public toilet? Such class. And yet, you go eww at the one who had feelings for you and was not a heartless bitch like them.

You might find willing vertical smiles galore. Most of them desperate or just going for fun. I, however, was not desperate and you meant the world to me once.

And yet, a piece of my heart might still be with you. You, who are nothing but a mirage yourself. I do not know why because I am starting to think nobody wants you. Why should I keep any trace of belief in you? Perhaps it is precisely because I do not believe in you. I see beyond the mirage, walk past the barren desolation and notice a small but very real puddle of water. I wonder if it will go dry soon.

And then I turn around in spite of it all, saying: "I hope sand rots your teeth. I hope the endless line of mirages breaks your spirit and makes you grieve as much as I have grieved. Keep chewing sand as your tongue burns."


Friday, 31 January 2014

The Hag

You, with your washed out hair and parchment-like skin. Your youth gone but your soul still beautiful. You, a wise woman in many ways and a lovable silly child on occasion.

You have made mistakes, just like any other human being, but you never tried to destroy anyone's life for your own selfish and irrational wants. You never tried to separate people who loved each other. You never acted against innocent women out of jealousy. Whether young or old; whether blossoming or withering; you, my darling, are not and shall never ever be a hag.

A hag is not necessarily a fragile, elderly lady who has seen better days. A hag can be young and easy on the eye. She may also look like a dry raisin with warts. It does not matter. SHE IS A HAG!

She is destructive, a hater of women, a murderer of female hopes and dreams. The reason? Pure, vicious jealousy. Often, behind a cruel dictator, a rapist, a die-hard misogynist, a religious fundamentalist... there is most likely a hag.

The hag is one of those beings that stops humanity from progressing. She has done so since the dawn of time. When a hag obtains a position of prominence or authority, i.e., a queen, a CEO or a prime minister, she endeavours to crush women and empower men.

She is the one who will spare her sons of house chores and make big sacrifices so that they go to university, whilst her daughters are deprived of education. She is the one who will sharpen the knife to mutilate her daughters' privates and impose the veil on them. She is the one who will spit on them, should they lose their virginity before marriage.

She is the one who will destroy her son's relationships because she is obsessed with him in a sick, incestuous way.

She is the one who will protect a rapist in her family. She is the one who will teach her boys that women are worthless and that she is the only female worthy of respect.

The hag says to her son's love interest, either explicitly or implicitly: "You shall never have my son. He is MINE AND MINE ALONE. No woman can have him because no one will care for him or love him the way I do."

The hag will feed on the tears of broken women. She will torture young maidens, like Elizabeth Bathory did.

Celebrate and rejoice, you debris of humanity who hates to see women thrive. You, enemy of progress; you, envious, jealous control freak who wants to be the only powerful woman in her mist.

I salute you with the Agincourt sign, a spit on your hateful face and an expression of contempt. FUCK YOU, HAG! Fuck you BIG TIME. Fuck you forever. Fuck you and whoever believes your stupid lies.

Tuesday, 31 December 2013

The Hanging Garden

Elizabeth fastened my chain to a tree. I tried to close my eyes for the hanging corpses and soon-to-be corpses were much closer and I could not stand it. However, the screams from the maidens who were still alive did not allow me to dissociate myself from the scene in any way.

One of the girls sobbed incessantly a few steps away. The Countess, who seemed to become strangely excited by female cries, walked up to her and drew nearer... nearer... until her lips were on her victim's lips. I had seen her do that before and every time this happened I had the same feeling of repulsion and fascination. I felt a little sickened at the sight of a woman kissing another woman and yet, there was a part of me that almost wanted to be the seduced maiden. Only that, perhaps, I would have wanted to be approached by one of my equals instead of the self-deluded hag we were forced to call "Mistress". In any case, I was genuinely curious because, before meeting the Countess, my limited imagination could not conceive such a thing. Sometimes what we call innocence is simply blindness to certain possibilities.

Elizabeth introduced her tongue into her prisoner's mouth and closed her eyes, in evident ecstasy. She then withdrew her mouth. The girl whimpered, her face was stained with blood.

- You are so beautiful - said Elizabeth to the girl as she licked the wound she had produced - but... my dear child, are you more beautiful than your Countess?
- No - she replied - I could never ever dream of being half as beautiful as Your Highness.
- And... - added Elizabeth - would you give up some of your beauty in order to make your Mistress appear even lovelier?
- Oh yes, I would do anything for you my Mistress - answered the girl, visibly horrified as she knew she was going to somehow pay dearly for her youth and good looks.
- Well then, I hope you do not mind if I make you a bit ugly... just a tiny little bit..

As she said this, Elizabeth took out a small knife she had been hiding in her bosom and slit the girl's left cheek. She did not scream but kept sobbing softly. Elizabeth's tongue moved avidly around that diagonal line where the blood was pouring copiously. Still, that was not enough for her. She cut the girl's breasts and stabbed her sex as well. Abundant tears mixed with blood fell on the snow.

We all knew where it would all end. Although terribly frightening, the Countess had already become predictable by then.

Elizabeth sliced the girl's jugular, a piercing death cry echoed across the barren landscape of white soil and blackened trees. The hag glued her lips to the girl's neck and started sucking greedily, like a wild beast.

I stood there freezing but the cold did not matter so much, it was the sight of my fate that sent shivers down my spine.I already saw myself hanging upside down as I got slaughtered. Little did I know that Elizabeth had other plans...


The first part of the story... in video

I made a new video devoted to the first post in this blog: Rhiannon's Predicament, which may be read here. It is merely a very blunt summary because the blog entry is quite long and I am not very fond of recording myself in the first place.

So, Happy New Year to all those of you who think a year is relevant at all. To me, a year loses significance as time goes by. Old beings like me can afford to be patient.

Thursday, 14 November 2013

Le Vampire and the North Sea

I was recently at Whitby Goth Weekend, trying to make sense of my seemingly pointless life, watching people come and go in their dark attire, hoping to find a victim that would quench my thirst but I could not do it. Amongst those hundreds of dark souls there was no one I would take.

Days later, not very far from there, I recorded myself reciting Baudelaire's "Le Vampire" in French for no apparent reason. You can read the original version as well as an English translation here:

Monday, 30 September 2013


I was Elizabeth's hound, walking on a lead through a desolate white land. The snow burned my limbs as I crawled naked, letting go of all my shame. I had to. Otherwise I would have gone insane.

I lived a nightmare, a ridiculously bad state of affairs I could never have foreseen. I did not fully understand how I had ended up there or why anyone could possibly enjoy inflicting terror on others the way Elizabeth did. I mean, to what purpose? Soon I learned, however, that not everything we do in life must serve a clear purpose.

My innocence had not been lost, it had been cruelly snatched away. And still, I was not capable of assimilating the notions of rape and sexual slavery. Sex and its connection with pleasure and pain were completely beyond my grasp. Despite having been exploited for the Countess' personal enjoyment, I was still a virgin.

We stopped. Elizabeth pulled the chain that was attached to my collar, giving me for a few seconds the sensation of being strangled. Up to that moment I had been looking down, having only the sight of a few strands of hair sweeping the snow and my reddened hands and arms, being occasionally buried in white and painfully emerging; struggling to drag the top half of my body forward.

I heard screams in the distance and looked up. I wish I had not done that for it horrifies me still, nearly four hundred years later. Elizabeth and I approached the spot. There were a few blackened, leafless trees with enormous branches and, hanging upside down from them, I saw the young bodies of the girls who had been sleeping in the same dungeon as me. More than half of them were motionless, their mouths and eyes wide-open, in an expression of horror and surprise.

There was a small crimson lake close by. Its long, filiform fingers stretched out like tears.

Saturday, 31 August 2013

A vampire in video

Before I continue with my story, I should let you know perhaps that I have tried to film myself but my grasp of technology is still poor. Still, this is proof that an old dog may learn new tricks, even if he is 400.