The Smile of the Unvanquished

Imagine a pale apparition standing fixed under a canopy of vacuous blue brightness, the scorching sun baking the termite mounds of steel and concrete rising from earth flattened and wiped clean of bucolic charms and the morass of Italy's wartime ruins. This moribund backdrop of a hyperrealistic nightmare sinks slowly away, a statuesque silhouette drifts by, blond manes flown,  her steps in tune with the whispering breeze of a sullen afternoon. Feminine grace among fading ruins and the rootless anemia, a melancholic sigh swallowed in the mute screech of monochrome starkness...

Eyes dripping of blood and fire, starhair rushes its whirls of seduction across your indigo shroud - enduring an insatiable fever that whetted exotic appetites and a manly desire to thrust your soul into the font of bespoken aeons and to rise one time more - reassembled, galvanized by primordial forces, reborn through the rite de passage of a new empyrean hermeticism - and destroy the black shapeless forms lurking inconspicuously in the high vacuum. Behold now these lumps of carrion marching in a sullen pilgrimage towards the gates of oblivion: neck broken, spine humped in shame and terror, vile casualties of their own indoctrination of haunting nightmares, sentenced to eternal torment under the stark scrutiny of bland nonentity. The undying fire raging in your chest: their bane. Dusting the remaining embers of stars and newly formed planetary system into stark penal colonies made from dark matter... Airing the canvas of space-time, trawling a spree of a trillion galactic cobwebs int...

clouds drift above our heads, seasons dance the waltz, the sun is a nebulous haze... rain and sleet whips the air, we look for shelter, we meet only closed doors; our skin feels like frozen, our eyes are tired, but smile between the tears welling from deep crevices of pain and stung by a biting wind. our hearts gallop steadily like proud untamed horses, securing their domain with scuffing manes, emulating the rays of thousand shining suns in the velvet shrine of the deepest night - entwined to loneliness and bonded by intransigent love, we walk this fortuitous path with indomitable spirit.

Rise up towards the dawning red, never a hostage to that stolid fiend, the moor of despairs - Your flames burn those fermenting shadows, where an indolent spawn was birthed from tears of seasonal limbo. Walk tall through wintry haars and in the dead of the night, cast your wrath around and avail yourself a new Kingdom!

surprised by a sea haar rolling inland, he pricked up his ears for the call of the foghorn. sidling through a wicker work of bracken and nettles, sliding and tripping over slimy rocks, he crawled towards his refuge: this stalwart pillar of his yearnings - a light tower. icy talons sank into his bowed skull, accosted as he was by a blustering gale - sputum of foam and brine hissing and roaring from the bottomless crevasses of the ocean. frozen on a rickety spot, nerves stretches to a strain, he howled a shriek of despair against the hungry beast. a mouth bloated with a legion of slithering tongues gobbled him up; down a torrential maelstrom he went, spiralling towards the womb of that gargantuan dread.

along the jaded cliffs of absurd wretchedness .. I lay myself down on the edge of industrial fossils; their perdurable embers cradle a whist interlude at the beck and call of the illustrious conductor. The briny sough from clamoring waters eases the woes of this callous funereal bride, whose bunions are grazed by fusty sea weed and its yield of decaying effluents. Wilted vanity coughs out sneers at the millenial clichés wrought to forge hermetic design where only bland erosion shines. Unfathomable: a depth so tight in circumscription and yet cramped by mammoth dread gazing half-wittedly at you. The overlook of an endless plain of frosted ashes that intones a crunchy polyphony in which I discern my half-caste name. I do not belong here, but already that epiphany of lucid insanity crawls away from me. Anchored on this spot, I lapidify into the scenery - a wart grows on the temple of the sandstone empress.

In an dreamless dream, I am awakened in the centre of a triptych, an opaque and leaden warped counter-reality of our concrete pedestrian world. Logic and purpose follows the school of Escher; sequences ascent and trip up in staggering staircases without landings. The linear perspective mellows away, colours and playful contrasts of shadow and light sink in latrinary ooze. I leaf through an almanac drenched in sepia that poorly attemps to hide the icy slate grey of yesteryears ensconced in perpetual dusk. I register no words, only their beclouded silhouettes in wasted away ink. I listen to epics in categorically unredeemable trifling matter. Relinquishing all apprehension, I infuse the exiled soul in a concatenation of rhythmic murmurs between the amative sea and my vexed blood. I walk in desolation; my surroundings are soaked in bitter-sweet melancholy cowled over the pox marks of congenital grief. Lofty prospects and bloated fervor run on high heels...