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Our story begins I an almost entirely rotted narrow street.
As footsteps echoed weakly from a unknown position, a foul stench drifted in waves of putrid green-grey that slithered down the passageway trying to poison the first innocent that passed.
But, oh, it failed in it’s attempt! For this stranger that hid his hands inside a frock-coat and his head behind an a extravagant hat, was everything but innocent.
The foul slithered away, frightened that it’s own decay would be mortally threatened.
The man’s beautiful black boots splashed the muddy puddles while he whistled something that sounded oddly like Mozart’s Symphony no. 29. His head was moving slightly, conducting his invisible orchestra, as the mud ran down his boots accompanying him with it’s twisted dance, a cicada played the violins for him.
When he reached the end of the street he turned left and continued walking in what appeared to be a long forsaken plaza with collapsed buildings and birds that whistled along with his Allegro Moderato.
“I’m gaining public” he thought gaily, making a more brusque movement of his head and whistling a high string of notes.
Soon he reached the end of the plaza where he entered another perilous looking alley that made it’s way in curves that led, at last, to a vast road.
The road led to a field, and reaching the field led him into an Andante that was chorused by soft airs and the same cicada that continued with it’s vibrato.
The field, with an astounding shock of colour, was enormous and was covered from side to side in with bright red flowers and other plants of very curious designs.
He smiled as he gazed all of it, then he kneeled down and picked up a small yellow wild flower that he placed in one of his frock-coat’s eyelets; his moving hand covered in a dark leather glove was an odd sight next to the fragile little flower that with great effort remained anchored to his eyelet.
Here the aroma was delicious, filled with all the sweet scents of flowers from his fields and the ones next to him.
He stood there a while, until his Andante gave way to a Menuetto, Trio.
He seemed to float past the flowers, his tall figure visible only from the upper half and his frock-coat sewing amongst the green leaves that fluttered at his and the wind’s pass.

He did not remembered the last time he had come, but yet he recalled the same scent from another field he had visited recently, there too, grew wild orchids in the trees and lemons and oranges filled the air with their citric perfume. Heat, as only in this part of the continent can be, was starting to molest him, he wanted to get rid of the frock-coat, the hat... and maybe at some point just swim about some warm limpid sea.
When he reached the end of his field the Menuetto, Trio had long given way to an Allegro con Spirito and the climax of his “Illusionist Symphony” was announced when a glass filled with lemonade was offered to him.
Placing his coat in a chair and his hat in a desk, he withdrew, apparently form thin air, a baton and continued leading the orchestra as he lulled himself to sleep in a wooden rocking chair.
He let the music drift slowly of his mind... let the sound grew fainter as a new orchestra of colours composed it’s own magnificent symphony.

Back in the alley, the poisoned smoke glided to it’s original place and when the symphony died away and the last note came to an abrupt halt a corpse fell to the mud, splashing the stench that was oscillating near it’s owner, who found it’s death drowned in putrid and muddy water, soaked in blood.
28th-May-2006 10:59 pm - Blood Operated-Boy & TPOTO

Blood-Operated Boy


The clattering of cups, knives, trays, plates and soft laughter filled the rooms,  making a duet with the soft rhythmic music that glided invisible amongst the guests who were chatting contentedly and  dancing animatedly whilst some others just enjoyed the never ending flow of trays filled with delicious snacks, cocktails and whines.

Everything went as it should, this people left the party feeling quite happy, commenting how great it all was and wondering why had the star host never appeared, not even a single time, to welcome his guests.

The fountains danced gracefully, casting their charms upon grey eyes which never failed to be spellbind by their slippery beauty. Slowly everything was becoming to appear as it was before the celebration, everything returned to it’s exact place; the lights of the lower floor were slowly dying away one by one, until even the founts seduced him into their last curve and yawned slightly as they grew smaller, finally disappearing to give the night it’s deserved dignity.

There was a low sound, a dull and ungainly movement, that was reflected in a deep shade of wanna-be-black red  that moved slightly, roundly, in it’s crystal recipient as dully as the master.

    Again, without any possible disposition for energy, a long hot breathe came out followed  by a rapid movement and sudden stillness.

The four posted bed seemed suffocated by the foul that stench in the air and made it’s way through the nostrils of master and dead.

Still the master dreamt, dreamt as he always did, a movie half recalled, half invented and half written... half asleep was the dead... half of the cup was empty... half of the wine was poisoned, half of the master’s breathe oscillated in the clouds of his dreams becoming thicker and sweet, soon caramelised in the sky -solid but light as vapor- and  filled his mouth with the strange sensation of sweetened nothingness covered in chocolate fudge.





The odor was worsened by the sun rays and it’s pompous announcing of time passing.  Maybe this was the reason for the dead to climb out the master’s bed and evaporate itself in breathes of decadence.

Soon the sordid exhalations were replaced by Amadeo’s enchanting trill and the renovation of the twinkling and merry dance of the fountains.

The traces of rotten flesh where camouflaged in the dunes of black silk that where prisoner below the master’s weight, who still dreamt of candy clouds coated with chocolate.

The chocolate of his dreams was hardly visible as it ran down the master’s sheets and into the parquet, making it’s way even across the carpet that covered almost every part of the wooden floor.

The master turned and opened one eye to see his favorite bird chanting  in the window sill, which was strangely opened and let the air pass gaily to play with the curtains who giggled happily and joined the fountains’ dance.


His nostrils were filled with the scent of a mildly decayed orchid that laid in one of the boulle desks that was at the opposite side of the room, it was a bit rancid, but it still conserved  it’s old glamour and achieved to catch all of the master’s senses .

He woke up, fully dressed in black: a black cashmere shirt with high collar, black blazer with black lining slightly tinted with red and black pants and shoes.

His hair was a tad disarranged and some locks where willing to join the morning dance, though not the master: He went to his bathroom and locked the door.


than you dreamt it -
can you even
dare to look
or bear to
think of me:
this loathsome
gargoyle, who
burns in hell, but secretly
yearns for heaven,
secretly . . .
secretly . . .
But, Christine . . .
Fear can
Turn to love - you'll
learn to see, to
find the man
behind the
monster: this . . .
carcass, who
seems a beast, but secretly
dreams of beauty,
secretly . . .
secretly . . .
Oh, Christine . . .

25th-May-2006 11:20 pm - Imagination for Sale

Imagination for sale




The scarlet rock... the scarlet virtue of imagination.

Rising as fire... fire accompanied by trombones.

Cursing, flowing as venom through one’s veins, as a virus infecting every particle of your body; a feeling of the ultimate ecstasy... as heaven must taste.

Inspiration with the measure of a teaspoon, a cup... or gallon..

The scarlet flotation, the scarlet navigation, a magna opus in scarlet colour.

As shivers running up and down your spine, as a fine brush stroke, the last note, the last word... the heart pounds heavily, escaping in scarlet colour.

A little thing, a cube of pleasure, a pill of damnation.

Your one little piece of inspiration, in a tiny golden box with rubies and emeralds, diamonds and sapphires.

The small squared illusion of magnificence, there for you to pick it up and suddenly, as rapid and shocking as a bang:



Madness flows... freely and happily, reigning your fertile mind, leading you to the most refined point; exhaustion and energy alike... a spinning world  of colours and textures, sounds and tastes, no more blankness, no more feeling of despair, its finally here:

the scarlet muse.


It only cost you a thousand dollars.

The muse sold itself in little tiny pieces of scarlet measure.

And you had been happy to pay them.. a scarlet square inside a golden Cartier cigarette case with a quartet of diamonds and pearls..

Did not cost you anything to go inside there, it was actually an odessy of pleasure.

The rapid and bewildering music, as to drive you insane, the pure white walls decorated with nothing, the shelves full of fantastic shiny things, of hard like-jewely sort of stuff, of soft like-silkish fabric, of angel like figurless bodies...

All a madness... sheer madness.. and yet... all to beautiful.


Was it just an optical illusion, or was it that the desire was truly that great that it converted itself to corporeal form, transformed in this that they called the candy shop?


And they called this master piece the sugar-coated scarlet pill.

Almost made by divine hand. Did god truly existed until then?

And there.. your piece, full of magnificent colour, vibrant composition, deep meaning, simplicity combined with complexity, shapeless angelic beings prowling in the canvas or screen, wings fluttering, sweet quite voices, beauty placed upon a hollow blank space, that ended up being the epitome of splendour.

Pick up the pen, dip the quill in ink, place it upon the shallow sheet of paper... there... words.. pure, loaded of conceptual phrases... perfect.

Oh, your hands and the keys... of the computer’s keyboard.. of the piano..

Sweet notes... harmonic, simple, slow, calmed, perfect again.


Dependence is the price...

For now.. it had only been a thousand dollars... but this is of limited lasting.

What will happen when the effect of the scarlet muse wares of?

Another thousand dollars out of the pockets of your italian frock-coat.

And then necessity, the reason of living is now scarlet...

And the thousand dollars: save in someone else’s pocket, who is growing wealthier and wealthier at the shortage of imagination and talent of others like yourself...

Yes... you know it be heart now.. lack of talent, my dear.

For this little scarlet saviour also creates the illusion of perfection, for you sustain that the filth you produce really is of value.


Poor little lost thing.. could not you just do the world a favour and to you too?

End it.. why drown even more in the absurdity of a scarlet lie?


Oh... the reason: to make wealthy the creator of the scarlet messiah.

I assure you, he’s quite wealthy by now, for he has this crew of youngsters with family fortunes behind them so grand that they have lived generations of only the interests...

But for your sanity and sake, feel happy, that new 50 million dollar-house of theirs in Boca Raton was bought of profits obtained of scarlet gurus and other candies.

Oh! You do not really want to know about the creators!... you do? Well maybe that will make you understand...

25th-May-2006 01:55 am(no subject)
Wilkomen, Bienvenu, Welcome
Im Choripan, Au Choripan, To Choripan!!!!

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