Lolita's Sumptuous Home

The Unnamed

2012-01-12T18:29:00.000-08:00

The world's fiber is worn out

by tragedy of young people

with old weltanschauung

living in the pockets

of great illusionists

I see carnage of men

scattered around streets

and transportation units

counting candelabras

to destinations

There is no tunnel

at the end of this morgue

only knifes in the dark

Often they look at me

as tender loving murderess

Guilt mourners

a quiet procession of victims

holding on to the withered flowers

on the caskets of the great despots

in trained devotion

keeping them long after they are gone

The sudden loss of foreign body

in the spine

higher power over the will

leaves them immensely lost

incomprehensibly disoriented

Preserved in the mausoleum

of universal insecurity

their fears await them

The orphans

living in the cold caverns

of crushed civilizations

that's us

What are you looking at?

We are

home bred monsters

You made us

with merciless gestures

in the image

of your ruthless idols

Self portrait

Young is This Lust

2012-01-08T15:51:00.000-08:00

In the snowstorm, holding but a candle

On the barricades, young flesh, on the front line

There is no bread to feed this hunger

And they poisoned the wine

Before sacrificing to the next revolution

To the beautiful lie

Come with us we'll watch the saints

Falling from the sky

A blade of words slits our throats to drown

A thousand sleepers in our sweet blood's bed

Do not descend into silence

Let's paint our plane red

And not fade into painless myths

And not surrender to the dead

Speed, vertigo, wanderlust

“Dark water” to taste, to rise against the dust

War , blood, torsos and scars

Skulls, fractures, bruises and rust

To crush, to breathe, to master, to fight

To screw, to scream, to live, to bite

Despite the old tongues desperate tripe

Beyond the architecture of archetype

Self portrait

Darkroom

2012-01-06T13:43:00.000-08:00

Prologue

She lights a match

Who's there

She asks the silent uniform of dark

Is that you, father

Holding a gun to my temple?

Who taught you to hate

So perfectly?

Who trained you to kill so well?

The future of your blood

Floods the floors of your great atriums

I haven’t seen the sun

under the shadow

of your dead ancestors

I walk alone

between the murderers

And the massacred victims

Both hurt no more

In this holocaust

Built by common men

Who taught you to fear ?

Your hands are so cold

Like golden coins

Cut the cord

I forgive you

Afterword

The match flies across the darkroom

Illuminating the faces on the walls

As it falls to the ground

Fire

... history must die

Self portrait

Cosmic

2011-12-22T12:25:00.000-08:00

Do you watch the stars – do you feel the world turn beneath your feet? Can you touch the centuries that wind away around you? Wind away and dissipate into the history of billions - of untold stories of the commonplace and the extraordinary alike. Days that are marked by every man, no matter how alien to our ears, are known to our hearts.

I see entire nebulas in orgasm and the world explodes, our bodies form in its womb. I see all before us passing through the countenance of your face. In every word you say I feel time releasing this world, space crashing like glass under the gentleness of your existence. Who are you, this small and this significant, seeding the energy that brings me to life? I understand every particle of this universe just looking at you

Can you stare into the sun and into the heart of love? Do you see in us the microcosm of everything that is and ever was? We are the cause and effect of this universe and countless others. We parallel the story of man, the story of the heavens, star burst and star thrust. We are the grinding hips of the world. You make it easy to understand it all.

Can I watch the stars folded in your embrace? This is all there is, the centre of everything, wrought not by design, but by self induced life. This beautiful agony of immaculate chaos and all of it passes through our dynamic, enthusiastically attached to the core of want. You make it easy to love it all.

Written by John Jack & Natasa Georgievska

Self portrait

The Chants of the Senses

2011-12-13T21:12:00.000-08:00

The sun is beating with its fiery tongue the good citizens rushing to work, the sleepy streetwalkers, the singing beggars, the kindergarten kids holding hands. The world is burning, someone is dying, someone is being born. And all the time I think of you...Flame keeper, flame keeper,I need fire, I need flame. Say my name, say my name…

In my mind there was a red velvet couch smiling at me, jealous like his women, like me. I could imagine all the limbs enfolding him on the tantalizing smooth surface of that brothel scarlet. I could smell the perfumes and the arousal of female predators on its tempting skin, it was itself a kind of inhuman woman. I saw myself on the cushions, crushed between this man and that monster sofa, sinking in the softness of the depths that swallowed red curls of school girls and tattoos of Goth chicks, and it was hungry for me, opening his octopus regions to a night swimmer, irresistibly appalling…

I left the desolate desert of my bed, with no panties under the coat, changed three planes to get to his room. My senses were intoxicated by his smell. Totally disoriented in the sweet dark air, passing my fingers through his jeans left on the floor, I could sense the salacious cherry red tongues licking his torso, raspberry nipples brushing of his chest, tantalizing apricot shaped pussy lips opening to his command, bursting melon rich shapes of female behinds rubbing on his cock, and my hands gripped my thighs in need to touch, to inhale, to bathe in this sex polluted Turkish bath crushing strawberries between my fingers, squeezing peaches, sinking my thighs in grapes, dipping my tongue in the open heart of a red orange…

‎Whispers of trembling lips plumped at the “J”, with a deep sigh falling on the “Oh”, a long moan inside the “N”, escaped me breathless and exposed sensing him close. He moved silently, filling me with his breath...

To touch him was being born in a state of eternal climax, dyeing a thousand deaths to feel the endlessness of life, floating naked among stars with blood from your bitten lips dripping into the open mouths of the hungry flowers and beautiful beasts, soaking the universe in the juices of your thighs, longing sweet pain of rapture, breathing fire, killing monsters with desire...

There must be a new word for what he is, a word that will make them explode in orgasms the moment it reaches the inner ear, convulse and moan in the delirium of the sound of his name slipping through their opened lips sighing in lethal pleasure of unknown want to be absorbed in his body, to enter their lungs like perfume drops in their small ecstatic existence ...

This man whose every bone and every hair I feel, whose voice hardens my nipples, whose breath in my ear makes me faint, who passes through my spine within a fraction of a second, who has these hands that make me shiver, whose power commands me, this man I can still see in the mirror taking me like a little bitch, and come, come so hard, I scream, tear down the curtains and knock down the lamp...

I close my eyes and fall, my sole purpose, to feed his hunger, my breasts swollen with life, my loins burning, my skin tightly wrapping his pulsating flesh that reaches to the very core of life inside the succulent pulp bursting in flowing warm juices...

Soft wet creature, a woman beneath his every muscle. His fingertips slide over the contours of my face. Constant expectation. He slips his hand in, fondling. The nymphs emerge through the skin. There is something far more there than legs and shameful lips, than the diabolic finger-sucking shell that he invades without slightest idea of his power...

The night cries for its maniacs, its nymphs and murderers. We go out in the pitch black air, our skins meet half way between the dirty streets of the city and the frozen slopes of the arousing deep dark forests. The naked trees surround us, silent guards of a wet nocturnal ritual...

He speaks softly pronouncing words in deep fuchsia colors of nocturnal orchids that wrap around my ankles so I can’t run from the cinnamon haze of their pollen unleashed in the middle of the winter. The sounds his words produce in the very womb of this human harp I turn into vibrate through my bones. Vanilla, sandalwood, jasmine scented syllables drip like caramel from his tongue on mine. Consonants melt on lips with a hint of orange blossoms. Escaped sighs in between breaths fill me entirely with pure scent of the decadent English rose. Mouthwatering aromas of infatuation disarm me, I bite my lip as dates and bleed dark hot honey...

He tells me about birds that make love flying. All night I am dreaming of a titanium man making love to a black bird woman. Intimidating, immaculate silver giant being worshiped in the raging storm by her delicate feathered body. In that dark and cruel paradise I scream in deepest pleasure ravished by his mind...

In this void, within this endlessness of sadness, in tears of emotional beauty, we fold our limbs, lonely and lamenting, floating, obsessed with inhaling nightingale voices, growing white peacock feathers. In this gigantic black hole, we abandon humanity and sacrifice our fragile bodies to the pleasure of the beautiful demigods inside us, our skin sparkling in the opalescent ejaculations like diamonds, like stardust...

In our grandiose future we are majestic, fully developed into powerful gods, extraterrestrial, ultra intelligent forms of beautiful sensual beings. We shall grow wings if we so wish, our minds shall create rapturous utopias. We shall explore dreams, but we shall never be perfect, nor entirely healed, we shall remain incomplete to seek, to feed on one another still...

Self portrait

Blood on the Snow

2011-11-25T19:24:00.000-08:00

On winter nights like this one, while women like me sit comfortably by the fireplace discussing shopping over a glass of fine wine with their sleepy husbands, I make outrageous political remarks which start bar fights and end up screwing on the cold iron gate of the train station elegant like pharaohs, with boots on. I never had patience to get to hotel rooms, and bedrooms, and all kinds of proper rooms. I know the kitchen is not such room. The fact that I don’t drink does not help, I am constantly drunk of that man, I purr the moment I sense his body heat, his smell intoxicates my blood.

He is my Corto Maltese, a mercenary in the dark corner of the eye, burnt and casted in steel, a survivor. Always at brink of orgasm, in sadistic alliance, we draw knives from our radical hearts and throw them at the poker table. Watching us closely as they would monitor explosive material, the ambitious and the constricted servants sweat as we utter words in weight of our scars engraved bodies. And we know they are getting wet, their eyes darken in jealousy and pain of the intellectual inadequacy to respond to the naked tango of titans filling the room with living pulsating flesh, making them moan of obscene pleasure watching the acts of our extended bodies in violent copulations

On winter nights like this one, when they kill wolves and hunt men, I end up on the wet walls of the crying city taking him in me as a dagger, on winter nights like this one when one can smell the blood on the snow

Self portrait

Crown of Thorns

2011-11-22T04:28:00.000-08:00

I lived under your poisonous beauty, mother

I drowned in the legendary tragedy of you

I never blamed you

Look at me, I’m still translucent

even the morning sun passes through this skin

through the see-through pink shades of my insides

kept in this fragile body

and still, I want to kill, all of them

the vultures that stalked you

your friends and relatives

your dead lover too

the tormentors in this corrupted system

that devoured you before my eyes

I want to rip the flesh from their bones

and feed it to their species

of lizards with toxic saliva

I see you in me

In me dwells melody of sorrow

In me sleeps deep dark Baroque

You left me this love

Love is crown of thorns

Self portrait

Eternally Twelve

2011-11-20T13:16:00.000-08:00

Eternally twelve

suckling on green plums

with plumped preteen lips

pointed at unknown constellations

above the city alley's warm pavements

cradling the corroded skeletons of old cars

of old worlds

In see through white gowns

showing scraped knees

attached to thin legs

clumsily thrown at the back of a bench

unaware, sleepy, fluffy haired

we play

without a concept of finality

in laughter infinite

Our toes touch

our lashes brush over our cheeks

as angelic blue birds fly out of our clits

and explode in the clouds

The anger of the world passes by

like red trains through sunflower fields

as we dream ruthlessly

of thanking everything

Self portrait

Mice Metropolis

2011-11-05T03:19:00.000-07:00

The devastating hollowness yawns in the faceless sterility of the minimalist space-shuttle architecture of misplacement, in the warehouse cold emptiness of the open whale mouths swallowing us into the huge commotion of machinery of nothingness, in supermarkets, post offices, banks, hospitals, airports, waxen clerks, cameras pointed like guns, detectors flashing, elevators, metal, glass, motionless security guards, between the mass produced human pieces placed on the escalators as factory lines, the prisoners of a plastic bag society of trash

Тhe noise, the frequency of violence, that serial killer noise, tears flesh to pieces. The customs of this doomed place will chew one's bones until the mental death of this comatose nation is fully established, at the thirteen hour zero zero minutes. This tribe of screaming demons will drain your brain, the vocal teeth of their machines and the chainsaw slaughter altars trance symphonies of their mass murder gatherings stub and cut , compress until all suffocates in the sound holocaust.

Despite the strong gravity of the sophisticated mechanism of treachery, fragile fractals of luxury intelligence in rapturous rarity of the genuine, enveloped by the black velvet of obscure oblivion, dominate the axis mundi silence simply casting majestic glitter of clarity over the vile ...

Draft in the city of mime masters. Phantom fractions linger through the abandoned factories, on the edges of the old tower, in the basements, above the roofs, all that was fire swirls, bounces of the high walls and security doors, moving the rusted anchor, as furious the mechanical mother squeaks in the wind. Let down by parental negligence, searching for fear instead comfort, the lost children sway away.

Hegemony of a bad girl in lace stockings and smoke, a noir cabaret dominatrix… ah perhaps. "I despise intellectuals", says she.

Anxiety before the morning. You make love, love against the entire world…there on the breaking point behind the dead lake of the sleeping warriors’ fine skulls falling in serene apprehension before the silver-haired singing archangel puling out swords from their throats. The bodies, last bastions of the non-sleeping, non-humiliated step over the boundaries.

Your land is a woman, soaked in autumn rain deep in your old navy coat. Your woman, your Empire. You will be late, but you will never grow old. We won't lie down and die, not under this sky, not today.

In the faces of the dealers offering to buy off this restlessness, we spit and run. Having enough courage for one more charger we walk among the ruins, the broken pillars of a fallen civilization scrape the sky. Fortresses tumble down.

You've grown in me. You know what that means. I will die for you, but try to catch me and you’ll never understand the dark bleeding core. The man I adore, within you, makes me wet. Let him out. Our breathing disturbs the night. Go there, let go, that’s right, drink it, the poison off the lips. Fall into my deep dark secret.

We were quite young and beautiful and we didn’t know it. We smelled of baby soap, we were naïve and skinny, wearing men's clothes, in love with gay icons, kissing with our chapped lips in all the wrong places where people stared at us. We had no scruples before we knew too much. We were rough around the edges, soft in the middle, making love in parked cars. We didn’t know they were educating us for a work camp. We would have stayed in our beds that young and that beautiful. It’s so good to be that young, wanting life that much, loving hard, you know break down the door, tear up the panties, wake up the neighbors hard. It’s so good to be young and lured by the smell of the open road in your nostrils. It’s so good to be young, excited, pink-pussy-juicy- young …

Streets remember lovers in dark corners, kids licking guns and wounds, echoes in the gutters, "What a Lions you’ve betrayed, micе!"

This city bites your cheeks and grabs you by the hair, roaring and polluted. Between the well dressed and the hungry, this city lays ragged monsters of humiliation to sleep. This city is rape. Truth, the ugly scarecrow lurking in the dark, is never pretty. You can always smell it, yet you never find it. It sneaks up on you. It is something you can’t swallow. It scars. Truth harbors fear. Truth is betrayal. You don’t want truth, a loaded gun in your lungs ready to blow anytime. Every time they pretend to tell you the truth, you know they want to kill you. So pull up your stockings, inhale deep the deceit, crush truth under your heels, smile with ruby red lipstick of treachery and walk out. Walk till the streets move in the rhythm of your arrhythmic heartbeat, your poetic tachycardia, move your hips through the concrete asylum to the melody of your blood rushing to your brain. Walk beautifully till it’s only you left

Self portrait

Beautiful Beasts

2011-10-22T10:42:00.000-07:00

My blood is the ink

there are sensual demons

in you eyes

they want to write...

Kissing

I tremble

I hold on to my soul

at the edge of my lip

at the tip of my tongue

I faint …my opium

Shipwrecks in the clouds

Sirens making love to sailors in the grass

Their green tails shimmering in the sun

I’m so naked under this skin

I’m too young to die of love

Chasing fireflies in your back yard garden of Eden

You are naked and warm

I drink the drops rolling on your chin

Nature is cruel to have made you so beautiful

You wrap your vines around me

tickle me with your blue wings

Your tongue steals my voice

I can hear flutes silencing the birds

Oh, the longing glances

of the beautiful predators

the deep sounds of their breathing

Before we fade into emptiness of words

darken into hollow sadness

stiffen in the decapitated medusa stare

let us disturb the universe once more

shamelessly

Sink your teeth into the flesh of life

Pull my chain, rip my heart

dip your voice into me

Promise me deep dark secrets

We live in a wet dream

Flooded, soaked, mellowed

We don’t need to be anything at all

The concrete monsters of the city melt

The eyes that follow our every move dissolve

The snakes that bite us fall

in ecstasy of our sweet blood

We are naked

The hummingbirds feed upon

Our succulent tongues entwined

Self -portrait

The Lacrimarum

2011-10-20T15:58:00.000-07:00

One day I will tell you the story

Of this little perfume bottle where tears are kept

Of women who died of men, singing

Of women stripped of all propriety, fighting

Of women with lives confiscated in tiny little boxes

Of women who carried their dead on their shoulders

Of women who danced barefoot on broken glass

Of women that laughed and cried

Of women who paid their own debts

Of women who lost their 100 pairs of shoes

Of women that made brandy to survive a revolution

Of women who saved their men with one Tango with an officer

Of women who started impossible ventures

Of women that held the world in their palm like a roulette ball

Of women that turned heads , stopped traffic, broke hearts

Of women that ran and women that walked

Of women that spoke and women that wrote

Of beautiful women in love

Of women for whom Gardens of Shalimars were built

Of women in mysterious Nina Rici dresses

Of women that stitched thousands of diamond drops on their couture

Of women riding in carriages and flying planes

Of broken women , of women cursed

Of women given names of decadence

Of women whose names shattered the glasses when whispered

Of women painted, of women haunted,

Of women smuggled

Of women who lied, and women that never died

Of women who sold their rings to rise empires

Of women who said “the moment you stop doing your hair you die”

Of women who saw the Joan of Arc in their coffee cups

Of women with shrapnels in their flesh and petals in their throats

Of women with small children and stolen homes

Of women of whom ballads were written

Of women victims of plagiarism

Of women growing up with scratched knees

Of women who worked for a living and lived big

Of women that rose from the gutter of humanity

Of women that reached for the glittering heights

Of women who escaped and lived to tell

Of women who woke men

One day I will tell you of the tears of orgasm

In this little bottle

One day I will tell you the true story

Of women

Self-portrait Natasa Georgievska aka Lolita

Who are you?

2011-10-18T20:32:00.000-07:00

The power in your gut, the want, is so intimidating that the deadened, would still in their blind cultural mummification of superstitious taboos, call it sinister.

Cold, colder, coldest snake skin wrapped tight around your body will not hold you in, Lilith! It's your flesh, the feminine element, your so called demoniac nature, that they fear, that nymphic thirst, the succubus within, the erotomaniac, the insatiable hunger, the cat, the panther, that dominating supersensual beast, product of evolution and harsh natural selection, that creates this world

When you reach for his cock is like holding a machine gun pointed at the dark hearts of the indifferent gods. You compete with all destructive forces. You build a man

In your marrow you feel the urge to move to higher levels. It is never enough to seduce the mind, you must procreate over and over. You see entire civilizations rising, advanced cultures flourishing for the sole purpose of keeping that Queen bee...

Self-portrait Natasa Georgievska aka Lolita

Some grow up afraid of their pussy, they've never seen it, its like an unknown animal to them, hidden in the deep darkness. They refrain from touching as if something with sharp teeth would come out and eat them. The demons have told them "dirty dirty girl"

We exit the garden of Eden, barefoot and naked, stepping on thorns and frost, each lost, coming from paradise disowned, knowing how to build one...

Waiting for Rambo

2011-10-18T18:29:00.001-07:00

My mom loved watching Rambo. She was excited as a kid admiring that man. Now he’ll come, just wait, she would sayat the high point in the scene. I knew she wanted to be Tarzan as a child. Grandma told me how she asked her father for a pair of Tarzan leather shorts and a Kama (large knife) form the Commission (a foreign goods shop).

Then one day, marked with the death of a young Macedonian soldier in the Yugoslavian army, it started. Long silent war. People lying in the streets, in a single moment. Snipers they said, silent snipers, no combat, no heroism. That is how people died in the Balkans, suddenly, silently, remaining on the asphalt, motionless.

My mom would not move from the TV, they will come you’ll see, they will. She was waiting.

There were blue helmets on the horizon, fragile blond Scandinavians as young as the first that was cut from this world we knew. They were watching over the city with disbelief in their eyes. They called them observers then. They saw kids playing bang bang ... next moment cut like young spring grass. They would have played with them few years earlier somewhere on the Adriatic coast.

My mom would not give up, wait wait , she would cry… We were waiting for Rambo

Left: Self-portrait Natasa Georgievska aka Lolita

Right: Reunion by Azsacra Zarathustra

The Years of the Clones (Rough Draft)

2011-10-18T15:58:00.000-07:00

For years they heard the screams

of the man next door

raping his wife

beating his children

and would not move a finger

to call the police

When others would

they claimed they heard nothing

For years their brats yelled below our windows

cursing and tearing cats' tails

For years they poisoned the other people's dogs

and called the Dog Killers on the stray ones

the quiet kids kept in the back street

For years we woke to blood trails on the street

and missing puppies

For years they called the cops

and banged the walls

to the sound of music

to opera or symphony

while folk hit extravaganza

trashed the roofs

at their many weddings

and they opened cafes below our flats

and fired guns every time they pleased

For years they knocked on our doors collecting money

for this and that, asking questions

blackmailing beautiful single women

telling them they had files in the services

kicked their guitar boxes from elevators

screaming at their faces

for holding their occupied territory

too long, the lift that carried their

pile of fat to hell

For years they kept their ears on the walls

and wrote reports in the dungeon cellars

of the secret police

committing their neighbors

to the black leather coats

to the early morning disappearances

to the reformer island trips

to the finger pointing at their kids

For years they sung one hymn then another

they turned from commies to Nazis

quickly as their ancestors

turned from simple peasant partisans

to academics and big belly proprietors

For years they took other people’s property

If they only liked it

One day the fetishists moved next door

with their dark hair, threatening clothes, tatoos

and pierced faces

adopting the street dog

and sleeping on their terrace naked

And the spies rushed to the keyhole

and they pointed their binoculars

and they ran to the phone

They claimed they heard whips

and pleasure screams

anal sex, they were sure

When the officers climbed the stairs

They found the door broken

and the man who raped his wife

and beat his children

kneeling in blood, crying over his

mutilated family

and fetishists not home

They bolted their doors

For years we remembered

the sound of the chains on the thin necks

of the young blooded tenants

and their sharp stilettos

echoing the corridors

climbing the stairs behind the officers

with sad and angry eyes

for not breaking that door the night before

for phoning the cops

who came too late

and searched their place instead

to find filth that thrilled

the fat no neck housewives

with moustaches

who cooked onions in the morning

and made execution lists in the evening

For years we kept quiet

as they cloned themselves

Watching us

Left: Aymeline Valade by Tom Munro

Right: Self-portrait Natasa Georgievska aka Lolita

In Want

2011-10-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

All is flooded with the blood of us.

In it we are born, cruel and hot, loving and killing, in want.

In it we are pure, alive.

The blood of our young and beautiful bodies fucking

The blood of our anger and pain

The blood of our virginity

In it we are born, in it we die.

And it will carry us broken

When they kill us in cold blood

We shall remain in it.

In it, the lips that bit other lips

The nails that sunk in the skin, in it

In it, the screams,

In it, the dreams,

In it, the want

The blood of us shall flow in you

Self -portrait: Natasa Georgievska aka Lolita

Bloody Red

2011-10-13T07:00:00.000-07:00

I watch and I touch

Torched I arch

I absorb breath, moist, essence

heat, luminescence

I lick, I suck, I drink

I’m drunk

Hot-blooded

Dripping fresh flesh

Naked on the floor

Forever more

And more

This lascivious demon

This nubile animal

Stirring wild gypsy blood

Guitars crying in the veins

I'll keep your secrets

Under my tongue

And kiss no one

The bloody revolutions will spill

All the red on my lips

As I sleep in your poisonous orchidarium

Dreaming your hegemony

Self-portrait: Natasa Georgievska aka Lolita

I Don't Fear ...

2011-10-10T15:46:00.000-07:00

I don’t fear flying

I fear falling

I don’t fear commitment

I fear it being misplaced

I don’t fear love

I fear it being withheld

I don’t fear fools

I fear being fooled

I don’t fear pain

I fear numbness

I don’t fear being alone

I fear being lonely

I don’t fear freedom

I fear confinement

I don’t fear life

I fear its loss

I don’t fear death

But I fear dying

I don't fear dying

I fear not living

I don't fear crying

I fear not loving

I don't fear crushing

I fear not bleeding

I don't fear losing

I fear never having

I don't fear loneliness

I fear emptiness

I don't fear sadness

I fear nothingness

I don't fear being lost

I fear never finding

I don't fear fear

I fear absence

Written by John Jack & Natasa Georgievska

Images by Jack Vettriano

Angeli Illuminati

2011-10-08T06:10:00.001-07:00

I was moved by human suffering very early in my life. Running to my father’s bed, pressing my ear upon his chest to make sure he was breathing, I felt rebellion in my every cell, a rush of my every particle against death. I was always accused, accused to serve the ones hurting. I felt responsible for every pain. I needed to mend each wound. You could see it in my eyes. On the old photographs, I am only three and I have such sad gloomy pupils.

They just come to me torn and exposed. I try to embrace martyrs fallen on a battlefield. I find myself nursing an unknown woman in the hospital asking for water as no one responding, or holding that baby I caught measles from, crying in darkness every night. My hair turned white very early, as that doctor’s in Afghanistan replacing lost limbs of children with innocent smiles.

Strength, they say, gathers in brokenness, in deepest darkest sorrow, in agonizing pain, in mutilated beauty, in hopeless hours, in loss of faith, in hospital corridors, in second life after the first feeling of death, in gasping for air, in running for exit from crumbling morgue stinking of corpses with open mouths… What do they know, there sleeps all loneliness.

I don’t know why they keep crying, their cries are calling me. I feel like an orphanage. I step outside and there is a face looking for mercy, and it stops and stares right at me like I know something. My eyes turn purple, I am to blame for all human sorrow.

I walk between the cruel and the suffering carrying their sighs and tears. I’ll never be forgiven for this profane sacrilege, for love of beings. My punishment for every little god I tried to save, my exile for being too attached to everything, they grant me. How do you take all that in, Mama…

The sculptor assures me, there are no female angels.

I know, angels don't come here anymore

To Mama

In The Summer Breeze

2011-10-07T21:32:00.000-07:00

I became a sleepy ghost, a reflection of light on the window, a color distortion on the silken wallpaper. I was quiet and soft as a concubine. To serve my master, I have grown into every object he touched. I have become his hair brush, his shirt, his book cover, his cup of tea, his cigarette, his bed, his knife.

He has come to me slashing vilans and goblins to get to me, with their blood still warm on his hands to touch my lip. I carried nightingale sighs bottled in my belly, eyes full of gold fish shimmers. Lotus whispers have slipped in my every breath dripping sighs on the skin at the sound of his voice. I kissed the tips of his ink-stained fingers. I bathe him in honeyed milk and anointed him with perfumed oils. I fed him with my lips. I would shed tears if only he needed a hint of salt. I danced around him worshiping his every move.

He has grown accustomed to me and cold like a stone in the deep waters of the frozen river. No longer would he ask to see his faithful slave naked under the starlit canopies, nor write secret letters that would make Gods blush. No longer would he look at me excited, or run to my sumptuous quarters to sing of my beauty. He would delight in the company of the geishas that adored him.

The mornings would sink in the darkness of me on his late arrivals, in between the scarce words irrelevant like the opaque shade my body faded into. I have decided to disappear into thin air. I closed my eyes and turned into fragrant wind.

My lover, he does not care for the rain. I still serve my noble master, chasing clouds beyond the roads he walks upon, laying rose petals before his feet, tangling his hair with delicate airy fingers, blowing in his ear the vowels of his name, and sometimes, in the twilight, with a gentle hand trembling, I touch his cheek

Shhhh tingling chimes, wake him not

Hushing Giants

2011-10-07T12:56:00.001-07:00

We must be silent, we must be still

To hear through the hollow bones, the whispering blood sing

To feel the vibrating moans of the knife passing

We must be silent, we must be still

To keep secrets within deep, unspoken

To cover the bruises, the wounds, the broken

We must be silent, we must be still

To awaken the titans within from the dream

To sense the birth of molecular scream

We must be silent, we must be still

Until...

Ellen von Unwerth

The Watcher

2011-10-04T07:35:00.002-07:00

I follow him like a shadow

Like an ill-omened cat

Like a thief in the night

Like certain death

I come like an orphan

I come like a child, to devour

I come like earthquake

In the early morning hour

In immaculate silence, I sneak snake

Motionless, watching my pray

Sending my spells in sugary ache

To lure him to open the way

To my ultra indifferent look

To my ice-dagger-cold stubbing

To my throat-cutting stare

To my shark teeth, grabbing

As low frequency screams

Dim the lights

My deadening eyes inflict

Piranha love-bites

Harpy claws in your chest

I clench

Feel the bone-breaking

Betrayal stench?

I’m pure poison

Dripping in your gut, doom

Phosphorus acid

Burning your womb

I’m the little spiky monster

Bouncing in your throat

From places unknown

So dark, so remote

Till it bleeds as an Aztec altar

A muted roar

Your hummingbird’s stomped

By my raging boar

My naive tears feed his noble ambition

Infecting him gently with lethal submission

I stage my deprived childhood, my rape, my slashed wrist

craving my delicacy, saddened men, I never miss

Sucking your juices, I kill slowly

Like rust, like draught

Raising monstrous insects

Planting time bomb of doubt

There is no way to escape, to run from my sting

To save me he'll be kissing the ruby devil's ring

In the open jaw of my gaze-alligator

I have my victim, your faithful traitor

He’s a mighty young wolf

In hunger for my vanity flesh

I’ll make him kneel, howl from the roof

I’ll take his soul, his heart still fresh

I’m Agent Provocateur, my dear

Agony, a dark matter

You dared ask for my head

On a silver platter?

Everything you heard were bunch of maybes

'Cause once he sees me you are done

I’m butterflies and bullets, baby

Butterflies and bullets, hon

Yours faithfully,

Jea Lousy Van Ity

Loyalty of the Blood

2011-10-03T12:04:00.000-07:00

Until we share the last drop of water from each other’s lips,

we are no friends.

Until we taste each other’s blood,

we are no friends.

Until we can carve our trust on our flesh,

protect the honor of one another to death,

we are no friends.

Until we fight them all back to back,

stand to our knees buried in the corpses of our enemies,

drag one another’s unconscious body through the battlefield,

we are no friends.

Until we sacrifice for one another e v e r y t h i n g,

we are no friends.

Until we are ready to die for one another,

we are no friends.

We are no friends sipping Champagne,

discussing Chagall

We don’t go to pilgrimage in the stinking desert,

or the cold dead top of a fucking mountain.

Our Lord is within.

We dive inside one another

and seek the ultimate pleasure

of touching God with bare hands,

with skin upon skin,

with our blood, with our flesh

Carnival Of The Cannibals

2011-09-30T09:08:00.000-07:00

I am adrift in the city of the dead

I can’t lose myself

In the heart of the crowd

There is no heart in the crowd

I feel raped by their mob mentality

I have only my mind – that much is mine

They sink their teeth into me

And tear me apart

The brutal mass of killers

I was born to feed

In a wasteland darkened

In a garden of skeletons

Of those like me

Before me is a feeding frenzy

Of insatiable savagery

The monkey king

Calls for sacrifice

He needs your cash

And your consciousness

He needs your ignorant

Compliance to a loose animal

Configuration of flesh

The carnival of cannibals

I am not human anymore

Dissolving in the acid saliva and toxic manure,

Shivering in their animal screams

Suffocating in the stench of the rabble,

Of their corpses

They grind - killing earth and air and water

As easy as it comes to an idiot

To crush a living thing in his clumsy hands.

Written by Steppenwolf & Lolita

Photograph ‘Crowd62’ by Misha Gordin

Life is War

2011-09-28T16:40:00.000-07:00

I shall make my sails out of the skin of you who slander me.

Of you who threaten to scar, I shall sharpen my blades.

Of you who enjoy humiliating, my drums shall be made.

My flag shall be woven out of the scalps of you who conspire against me.

Of the bones of you who long to kill me, I shall make my ship.

I shall sail on the ocean of blood of you who hate me.

With my foot on the skull of my archenemy, I shall command the wind.

I shall rip, with bare hands, the chest of you who blackmail me

and eat your beating hearts.

From you who betray me, I shall walk away

and leave you in the dark.

I spit in the face of death.

You don’t know me.

In my dreams I run with rhinoceroses, I swim with sharks.

If you could see me cooking vicious snakes on hot oil, naked,

you’d know I’m trouble.

I don’t make love, I fire love at you.

You’ll see knifes flying and bullets rushing the moment I set eyes on you.

Forget all the clichés, I learned life from a legless dog of war

who could swear at you till your eyelashes fall out.

Kiss me and your memory is erased for good

Gently

2011-09-24T03:11:00.000-07:00

I can’t imagine beautiful women dying

In dark cozy homes

In constant anticipation of tenderness

Hidden limbs, neglected lips,

Kept alive as gold fishes

For decorative purposes, and house keeping

And nursing kids in their small bubble gardens

And working in sterile offices or dirty hospitals

And riding roads, sleepy

Eyes full of vague longing ceasing in narcosis

Almost comatose

I can’t imagine their delicate hands like birds

Softly falling over their temples

To cover the fatigue and melancholy

With trembling shame

To brush over the aching thighs

Whispering Holy Mary, Mother of God

Slowly floating in the factory hall at last shift

With crippled fingers from gripping machines

Touching the raindrops on the windowpane

I can’t imagine … beautiful women

fading

gently ....

Sweet air. Nowhere to go. Young blue gigolettes listening to the summer soul of the street violinist. You want to live today. Lungs full of humming melodies, bodies fluttering to dance, make love. You, butterflies in a jar, sighing gently in the busses, the gray town stations, the old gentlemen’s boudoirs... The little gypsy yells "you are beautiful, beautiful!". Nothing makes sense in this world, but you are beautiful, beautiful

Dionysian Bastards

2011-09-05T14:36:00.000-07:00

His words, flaming arrows sinking in my flesh. I am his bloody Sebastian. His bed, a labyrinth devouring me entirely, a dark volcanic lake that swallowed many. A king’s whore tied to the cold bed post for him to feed upon, surrendering. Chains, tightening. His tongue takes breasts sacrifice. Every hair on his skin piercing through the membranes that hold me together as an embryo in the hot deep womb of the night releasing silent screams of prayer for completeness, for unity, for alliance with my killer, in orgasmic pain, in deadly levitation from this body and everything that free, that terrifying in the human form that seeks totality, thunder, tearing, clashes and splashes life into me, bleeding into me

Awoken by Silence

2011-08-18T01:01:00.000-07:00

The longest hour in the break of dawn

Unbearable silence in heavy blue mist

I think I could die of your absence

I can only feel myself when you hold me

I hear distant gunshots and dogs barking

No matter how terrifying

I love the reassurance of life

out there in the darkness

Tomorrow I will be mad at trucks

roaring like metal elephants

And the deafening cafes down stairs

fighting one another like hyenas

But what I would not give now

for a sound of a human voice

If I could only hear you breathe

Enchanted Doll

Whipping Song

2011-08-04T19:18:00.000-07:00

Natalie Wood of our neighborhood

was never found in her nude

body temple of the rich and crude

bonded by ropes of gentle velvet

drowned in potions, salacious, wet

I, who once touched her,

tried to take her scent, her essence.

It remained forever

in the silken dresses.

Trust lies dead

on the kitchen floor

She licks the knife,

"Sayonara, whore"

She loves now

like never before

Her back, bare,

licked by lashing tongues of fire

desire, desire, desire

Her tender martyr-killer thighs

whipped by the false toyboy cries

of never fascinating men-mice

eaten by their own lies

Agony, agony,

sweet disaster

falling on their knees

before their cruel master

Voyeurs lurking

in the dark corners,

with fearful faces

of self mourners

Without disturbing

the dull lamentation

of the silence possessed

philistine nation

She'll pick up her shoes

and go

wherever the wind

may blow

Time does not heal,

but bruise

She'll fight, resist, defy,

refuse,

every day, every pill,

every bottle, every deal,

every good advice,

she knows they kill

Disoriented, senseless,

wanting

detached from every

dead thing

She'll pick up her shoes

and go

wherever the wind

may blow

It'll cut inside her deep,

rip her guts,take her sleep

hurt and burn

crash and tear,

make her yearn,

make her scared,

sink it's claws,

the life's ruthless jaws

in that flesh so sweet

bite her, suck, steal heartbeat

to hard core damage open scars

alive alive in stars

excruciatingly submit

each luscious curve

invite every aching missile

in her every nerve

Before they rape her mind

and convince her

to forget the desire

for her murderer

She'll pick up her shoes

and go

wherever the wind

may blow

A slick woman, a strawberry lipped woman,

a death cheat

reaches for the succulent

papilionaceous slit

under her silken dress, so delicate,

so smart

and from the dark depths pulls out

a heart

And tear drops,

too abstract for words,

over peacefully sleeping

innocence of birds,

the first upon their milk white

before rain

a virgin among all

pain

The Cult of Words

2011-07-25T20:20:00.001-07:00

In the beginning there were no words, without people there are no words. You must not sacrifice to the cult of words. Words are parasites; they have no life or power of their own. Words are totally impotent if they don’t use your blood, incarnate in your flesh; engrave a picture in your skull, force action, rip your guts till emotion bleeds.

Words are just dead, they exploit to produce, like impersonators, they are make believe, they are crooks. They are tools by which you turn on, or off, a projector. Words are carriers of germs; ships of spirits, mere instruments of silence without your volition, they are servants, slaves of a good master. Words are not magical – they are apparatus, agents of thought.

Treat words as your warriors. Words, you command. They must be sharp and solid. The mellow watered mumbling of poets is merely noise lost in space. Words must be harder than your deadly look. Leave no space for misconception. You reign through words.

Your words are weapons. You can slaughter and burn down villages with words, or your words can build new cities of awesome and terrible beauty. Using words you can bring light to the blind and illuminate the dark of ignorance with knowledge. But words are not knowledge; they are only Pandora’s boxes containing the thought that moves your hand. Words will never fill your stomach, or stop a bullet, they will start a revolution, but people must fight it.

Words are bricks for building or throwing, words are incendiary and soothing, obscuring and revealing. Words are the kilns we bake stories in – words combine and disseminate to weave narrative and plot in the tales of antiquity. They are the little soldiers in our armies of reason. They are tiny beasts of burden; the principle carriers of meaning in vast caravans of knowledge that trace trails across occident and orient in universal trade.

Words are never sacred, they have no intrinsic value, until we invest them with meaning. Words are conveyers of meaning, but the meaning is in us – words are signs and we are signifiers. Words are hollow vessels – we fill them with meaning. This is why sticks and stones might break your bones but words should never harm you. In the end whether a whisper or a scream the word belongs to you, you do not belong to the word.

Written by Steppenwolf & Lolita

Freedom

2011-07-21T06:59:00.001-07:00

Freedom is never given – it’s taken. Freedom is bought with blood - not with speeches, slogans and songs. You can link arms and sing ‘we shall overcome’, but the price of freedom is more than a song. Those cowards will tell you violence is always wrong - while they hand out the bullets to their mind cops. I can tell you that sometimes you have no choice - if you want to survive, if you want freedom from bullies and oppressors - you better learn to fight. Governments will tell you violence solves nothing - can you imagine the blind hypocrisy of that – the instigators of war telling us violence solves nothing? We gotta recognize the truth - violence works, that’s why they issue guns. That’s why they have armies.

There's a lion in all of us - if you never felt the urge to lash out you may as well stick your head in a noose because you are already dead. Pacifists are liars - they are just too scared to fight. I know that fear which enthralls and paralyses - being a pacifist never stopped anyone hitting me. I made that choice a long time ago; no-one will ever hit me again and walk away without paying the price.

Freedom is a big fat dirty lie. You are tied, cooked in your skin since birth, prescribed a life and way of thinking that leaves you neutered. The human condition is like a disease. There is only one escape. To get out of that skin - you have to defeat everything you were ever taught. I was a good man, I stood in lines and they walked all over me. I was a kind man, my empathy is legendary, they spat in my face. I was an idiot. I fell so low, I learned life. The thieves taught me to steal, the crooks thought me to lie. I became a real man, respected and feared. Impotent humanist culture is in constant conflict with the life in you, your true temperament, and your violent nature. It drives you to suicide; convinced to be powerless, you can’t exist. You need to kill to live... a bison, a shark, a rival...

I can hear your heartbeat, oh, yeah, you are alive, and you know it. Wake up from that slumber. You are not going to save a nation, or a world, unless you save yourself first. Get out of that basement where you write freedom slogans in your pajamas, taste the blood of life. It tastes better than your apathy, it tastes exciting. Trust me, it tastes like power. It is time to free yourself from cold, corrosive, silent death.

By Steppenwolf & Lolita

All or Nothing

2011-06-28T05:34:00.000-07:00

Still warm, exit wounds. Bullets missing. The taste of Borgia's ring, on bitten lips. Spies in the basement, killers in the attic. Traitors and haters and devils in your ear, conspiring. Infecting with the virus of the average moral, roach mouths gnawing life. The fear of dreams declared for dead, creeping in. The blood on your conscience, staining. The vandal fists over the fallen Eros, stubbing. A refugee in my own skull, that's me. My heart was a brothel. I believed in nothing.

Slipping in the agony of existence. Nothing to hold you. And than out of nowhere that voice, unlike anything you ever heard, daggers between your ribs. She strips for poetry, she says. White fingers in black hair, lost. Damn you! Your warm flesh, your tongue soaking with desire for life this disloyal fracture of a man. Wanting nothing but that, for nothing. To touch my nothingness. And did I ever tell you, she had a pussy like a butterfly trembling on my lips. Something so smooth to tell all secrets to and feel God could hear. You, drunken stranger, you will never remember, I will be forgotten...

All in one night by the feet of a woman in a light dress, I placed, which was not much, but all. All in one night in the despised blue eyes I wanted to crush. All in one night I fed on her gentle breasts. All broken, all the betrayer kissers ripping apart my body left behind, she gathered in her small hands as the last precious thing left in this gloomy land of ghosts. And I took that, like it was nothing, because nothing I know well, and I pawned it to entertain women, women to poison my blood, women to wash her purity off this dirty skin.

All in one worn out coat now, waiting under the dark window with thirst for revenge and pain and few coins in the pocket of the sold out ideas owed to the night, to buy death with. The black craws stalking my petite thief sworm on my shoulders. Mirrors cut me.

All is inside her, all that words can not kill, but I could. All lost between the East and West, all damn it, all!

The dice are rolling. All or nothing

The Vanished

2011-06-16T11:10:00.000-07:00

Once upon a long time ago, on the bottom of the dried up sea, in all its provincial charm, there slept an enchanted town. In the stinking mechanical fume that the whole condemned place was possessed with, ugly houses with no homes grew like weed casting their heavy shadows over the abandoned and the vacant.

Somnolent of deepest slumber, there among the ruins of the secret library in which the forbidden book, whose ashes seem to still flavored the air, was once in clandestine safekeeping, quietly lurking, passed the homeless ghosts, the intimate acquaintances of the dark, the hunger and the cold.

And yet another May going into June, darkening roses in gardens of thorns. Trash and pollen feathering floating in the wind, the roaring gasp of the insatiable demon repossessing the space, and the hypnotic chanting of the violators still incubated in the vicious air, echoed.

As in charging after the holy grail, as the sword drawn out of the stone, the lost was hollering in the deaf gloom, a child's voice torn with morbid violence in brutal deprivation of its right to earthly sanctity…and another, and another……

Mild air currant activity over the southern perimeter of the forgotten land. The branches of the deformed tree reached for the miraculous glittering fleetingly ceasing in the suspicious presence of the midnight visitors.

There is no one here, the silence reassured. The useless bits and pieces of little dresses and shirts serenely flew like kites over the pathless valley, among the fallen road signs. The draft that squandered the vagrant hats into shimmering nothingness, spread over the vast amplitudes of the great essence the remains of the little gypsies.

The summer is imminent. Empty the cities poke out the space...

Vladimir Clavijo Telepnev

Steel

2011-06-15T10:39:00.000-07:00

Have I disturbed your sleep,

invaded the silence

of the dark morning shadows,

filled emptiness with tormenting sighs of want

lingering where all was lost in fear

Have I given the turbulence

of hurricane dreams

to your indifferent glare,

licked the skin

tasting the ice in your veins,

charmed the wolf's eye,

to omnipotent hard on

Could you break me easily

like a wounded dove in your palm,

and yet never know the pain

Oh, please do

before I kill the momentum of truth

and melt in the intoxication of power

in sacred covenant with the bullet

deep in the steel bearing corset

Kissing your blessed hand

with hungry lips

I'll pledge my loyalty to the cold revolver

passing over my elegant skull

as we make love gracefully, standing,

a cathedral of flesh

He’ll come soon

lifting sadness off the dirty streets

and there will be white feathers floating

and crimson rain

and confessional

pain

Mistress of the Dragon

2011-06-12T12:55:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember when the rain stopped

and the wind broke loose

My dress fell round my ankles

and his hands melted on me

becoming a part of me

lost in me

Look at me

I am nothing

a frail creature

turning into air

My name holds no consonants

It is a moan, a sigh, a breath

His fingertips define me

Taming me his eyes burn

Hot potion spilled in my bosom

engulfs my sugary substance

I mustn’t be touched there. Oh, no.

This world crushes into bits

I sink, I sink, I sink

Sculpted to oblivion

I mourn my ravished art

bruised and confused

My mouth holds the words

the bursting words fall on the skin

warm blast ushers his moves

into the deep

I am condemned to run for life

He is condemned to look for me

Consumed by danger

the clouds shatter

above our nakedness

he grabs my neck

and bites my lip

breathing fire into me

The Little Mourner

2011-06-07T04:28:00.000-07:00

She was there at the cemetery, a little girl weeping to graves without mourners." Why do you cry little girl" they use to ask her, "is this man family?"

“No” she would answer wiping her button nose “There was no one to cry for them.“

"She lives nearby, it's like a game to her" said the gatekeeper hiding his bottle under the coat.

I stood there watching the coffins lower in the empty graves filled with the remains of the executed murderers, the monsters, the abandoned . No one will miss them.

I stood there at a silent funeral looking at this one child of men holding a bunch of field flowers sobbing, and I could feel almost human, and I could feel all that is part of that atrocious humanity

Vladimir ClavijoTelepnev

The Womb Voice Whispers

2011-05-28T18:29:00.000-07:00

Touch–teach, taste-trace.

All knowledge is carnal. You understand the language of heat. You are a student of the flesh. Acknowledge your body, the temple of intellect, the zenith of life force. Submit to its desires, they guide to higher consciousness.

Express devotion to your senses. Demonstrate loyalty to every single inch of your skin. Show respect to your physical form.

Look in the mirror, you are so beautiful. Love yourself deeply. Worship the tangible god you are consisted of. Everything alive is divine, that is the grand idea.

You are born of pleasure. You are designed for sensual utopia. You will suffer great and beautifully. You will reach the state of being. Fully alive and aware of the grandiose creature you are you will levitate in the state of orgasmic continuum.

Remember?

Nypholepticarium

2011-05-27T10:50:00.000-07:00

We need to dream

Hypnotize us

Get us drunk on your smell

Slip your hand under our skirts

Touch us shamelessly

Let every word drip with your love milk

Straight to the slit

Make us cry of pleasure

We want to forget our dead mothers

And our drunken fathers

Ravish us with every verse

Tell us how you want our nakedness

Pull our hair, spank us hard

Make us feel what you want

Sculpt our legs into syllables

Kiss us with a thousand lips

Make us lick every drop of pain and rapture

Bursting from your loins

Tell us how beautiful we are

So pure and so dirty

Tell us of the women that ate your heart

And the men that you faught

Build us into shrines

Soak us in tears of joy

Promise us everything

Your life, your blood, your shame

We need to dream

Orphic Resonance

2011-04-19T07:48:00.000-07:00

This is something that I dream about:

to live films, to arrive at the point at which one can live for films,

can think cinematographically, eat cinematographically,sleep cinematographically,

as a poet, a painter, lives, eats, sleeps painting.

Bernardo Bertolucci

As he emerges from the deeply haunting tones, the entranced listener feels transfixed witnessing the conducting of the beautiful sadness of the universe. His battle with the emotional deviations would make the hypnotized auditorium believe he has sold his fingers to the devil for a passionate nocturnal elegy. After every vertigo, hides another catharsis.

It is hard to believe that he is not a product of a prestigious conservatorium, that his impulsive improvisations soaked in excellence, so complex and so profound, could be instinctive to this virtuoso, as natural as breathing.

He prefers to identify himself as someone who draws and plays the piano. But does he? His act of drawing, often recorded in the creative momentum, is liberation of the spontaneously expressive line, setting it free with its shadows and hidden eyes on its indefinite journey into your soul. I’d like to think of it as poetry, a visual language that penetrates where the conventional could not, that changes you.

When you experience the poignant work of Christophe Calleja, you endure a deep emotional understanding. Most art captures scenes and fragments, but his faces provoke imagination, contain entire novels, breathtaking poems, tempestuous symphonies

Believe it or not, in this brutal world there are still gentle giants, bohemians, drawing in obscure bars, bleeding on paper the most striking visions of their inner being. It is an agonizingly beautiful and orgasmic experience to find that sweet pain of recognizing the true, the pure, the ultimate, the rare, the innocent. In the clusters of flashy art advertised through clichéd shock by the poor passé posers advocating pure vulgarity in absence of substance and thrill, you may still stumble upon refined elegance, and exposed truth. In one word ultimate excitement.

The drawings of this brilliant young man are deeply rooted in intuition and sensitivity. Someone once told me that looking at his portrait he felt like everything he ever loved or loved him was looking at him, like he was understood, forgiven. That is the power of this master’s work. It communicates with the eye of the beholder on a very personal level.

These pieces are produced with young eyes, those of a child that understands all, born with that gift to see more. There is existential anger, but not aggression, there is desire, but not vulgarity. These drawings are in their essence dynamic, they don’t seem to stay still. Each time you observe they endure metamorphosis, evolving within you like a living entity.

The irresistible appeal of the conveyed, reflected on the audience encountering the multimedia work of this unique author in the universe of the internet free media and it’s merciless critique. It is exactly where the true relevance comes to light without any special promotion or patronage from the closed art circles and ambiguous influence of the academic centers of power that allow for very limited invasion of the new delicate sensuality of the young unspoiled authors. The art enthusiasts that troll the vast cyberspace are guided by great expectations, and expressed their impressions without any withhold. The following are some of their voices articulating that very intimate effect of awe Calleja’s work initiates:

"In a world where the artist fame is based on dead cows and repeated vulgar objects like tacky macabre, it is very hard to find genuine expression that communicates not just skin deep, not only decorative. The modern aesthete longs for fulfillment through all receptors and story that appeals with its secrets, and exposed vulnerability which makes it alive."

"It moves you with it's provocative yearning, lugubrious innocence, ethereal anxiety of punk dissent and daring soulful eyes."

"Aesthetically and psychologically gripping emaciated rebellion entering the beholder with its fiercely hungry spirit starved by the existential brutality of the urban concept."

"It blows you away doesn't it. Have you encountered more refined art in this age, I mean among the contemporary kitsch, something so purified of the false, so direct, intimate and deep. It completely engages you at first glance. It’s so powerful, you can’t look away and it stays in your mind evolving there."

"Very impressive visual thought with such emotional and psychological qualities. I must say I am fascinated."

"I think we found a diamond, a multi talented artist of great significance, a gentle young god. This art is very inspirational, and stimulating to the intellect. When you look at a piece of art you need to be moved and excited like this."

"There is some secret understanding of women in it, this sensuality and depth of feminine emotion, so powerful…reminds me a of Schiele’s passion.'"

"These precious films, lyrical performances within these stirring installations are such intimate and poetic expressions hidden in the singularly powerful images. They are savored with the most sincere pleasure, but also penetrating to a point of deep subconscious understanding of the inner drama. It’s poetry!"

"The piano performances of C.C. are breathtaking. I haven’t heard something so passionate disturbing the entire structure of the being within, so full of life , like emotional rain washing the dirt of the good citizens forming rainbows in the gasoline stains on the asphalt, like the heavy air of the industrial jungle leaving the city as a black veil lifted graciously from the innocent face of a beautiful mourner, like the fragrant wind awakening the senses, like walking in the serpent’s layer with detonator in the gut, like catching the last train with water in the shoes and nothing under the coat, like the nude lovers grabbing each other by the throat as animals slipping to the floor, mad, like leaving the stratosphere giving birth to the universe, like the pain of invasion..."

Here you may visit the Official Website of Christophe Calleja

Valentinus Victorious

2011-02-14T15:35:00.000-08:00

I recall moments of paradise when after we lay drunk of each other I would watch you with eyelashes full of glitter, your dreamy eyes deepening into blue mirage, looking for me, your hands reaching to caress in selfless tenderness the light upon my nakedness, me trembling in expectation of your lips whose every touch sank in me with the same insane ecstatic intensity of the first encounter.

In the heavy headed high of spent passion, the euphoria of discovery - I'd laugh out loud and reach for you to trace the contours of your body and feel the tiny currents of elecstacy tingle on my fingertips as they caress across your thighs and hips. Again I'd feel the coiling of desire tighten in my loins. Easy pools of liquid fire coursed through my veins to stiffen and guide my love in your direction.

Your every move cast ripples of delight in my pleasure pool. Your every gesture reflected and refracted in a million particles of light that blinded to illuminate my pounding heart. My love pump - bears your holograph - it sends pulsing measures of bloody sensate fluid coursing through the channels and estuaries of my being, each spurt driving me on into an oblivion of ecstasy. Heaven awaits - heaven's gates - between your thighs - knowledge of self - the completion of being - the secret contained, in the light of your eyes.

I am entirely abandoned by reason – living only in the clusters of stars your fingertips weave around me. There is something about you looking at me seems more obscene, more outrageous, than anything we want to do to one another. Shivers invade me as I think of you filling me, your eyes inspecting every inch of me, collecting with a flaming tongue the taste of my skin. You know something about me I have not yet reached, something in the deepest part of me.

You command my entire being with your touch - our breath merges, our waters mingle. As your bare chest presses upon my breast and your hair falls wet over my shimmering face I lose myself in the torturous delirium of the blossoming of being - the unfolding of my flower. I'll be everything and anything you want, your saint, your bitch, the flesh you feed upon, the temple you pray in, the sin you never repent of.

Steppenwolf & Lolita

Love Gun , The Way of the Samurai

2011-02-08T05:44:00.000-08:00

Change is ever changing - half a mind is better than none - open eyes better than closed - shave me with the cut throat razor 'do you trust me?' - 'with my life' - never more alive than when in the proximity of death - never more secure than when in danger - trace my face with the blade - pierce my heart with the tip. I'll take you in the cinnabar fields - we’ll make love in the cool morning dew and watch the rising sun reflected in each other’s eyes. Thorn clouds will tear our flesh and pour acid into our wounds. Icy luminescent streams shall course across our naked skin as we embrace like warriors breathless from combat – pursuant of the little death.

To die on the pillow is to make the way. We live by the only principles that make any sense in a ship load of drowning rats - adaptability. Survival is the only law in the twilight jungle of decaying civilisations and cracked coca riddled actors - where every other monkey is armed to their rotten teeth and every other panhandles with a begging bowl. There is no choice but to arm yourself with words, they are your swords, make them sharp, hone them clean and hold them steady. Use them only when you mean it and always draw blood before you sheath them again.

Load your bullets with bloody fingers into the soft pulp chamber of your vital organ - pipes tuned for sacramental songs - oblivion searches out a victim - confessional booths echo in whispered offering; 'say six bloody Mary's and pull up your knickers - we're done here.' Torrential rain and hail - funeral music - beats on coffin lids, the sky cries; ‘Mary - mother of God - take this pain, bury it beneath the sod.’ This song is playing in my house, all day long in my house; Death’s song is playing in my house. Gather her words in your little hessian sack. You know - she sings like those raven hooded clouds in grey Verdun skies - rows of tombstone crosses painted white - markers of eternal youth - sacrificial lambs and artificial limbs. It's raining all over the wet miserable world today - everybody is dying; everywhere you look dank funeral corteges crawl towards empty grey horizons. Mothers wail and stray dogs howl - this is the beginning of the end. We see the veil of death sliding through our lives and still lack the courage to live extravagantly - no voice within to yell for freedom, no words to shatter the darkened skies. Where are the moments to remember? Where is the stolen momentum we gathered from the glory of being?

We have no parents but the Earth and Sky, no home but our hearts, no power but our love. We shall pass with no regrets, no song unsung, no stone unturned. We shall live not to fear, nor to hate, but to love. We shall seize every opportunity to kill routine. We shall never slip into passive thinking. Peace is our enemy. Move! And let our moves be unpredictable. Move and move fast. There is always more - one speed - foot to the floor – there is only one goal - everything!

Steppenwolf & Lolita

The Agonist

2010-12-27T14:07:00.000-08:00

They cry, they sob
The gentle poison
They march in softly
They seek
To kill

Let them cry their cries of rot
Don’t let them drag us down
Awaken, awaken, my flesh
The wolf

Living among shape shifters far too long
Getting out of here, out of these clothes, out of this skin

Hear the cracking sound of the broken frontiers
Look at the fields of emptiness before us
Dry as the words of weakness
The footsteps of the traitors in the dust
The criers passing through and through
their ragged conscience dragging behind
Their bitter tears falling
On the porous thirsty earth

Everything crashed. Scars burning
Shadows only shadows
Of the faceless guardians of the sun

Don’t be kind
We were not built for despair
Not conditioned to disappear

Don’t you touch my anger
I want to live
I want to feel everything
I will defy the numbness
I am the hammer and I am the drummer
I am the bull under your fragile body

You are one flesh with me
In the world of copies and treason
I found hands that want and eyes that need
Regardless of absolution and pain and reason
I found yearning to grab the wild winds

And ride the tide
And no fear
No fear of the open jaw of the abyss

No matter how dark these dirty streets get
How hungry the scavengers leaving their drooling trail become
I know this warm blood inside is taking us home

Run with me, and do not look back
Bombs and bullets and dirty tongues of lies
Will pass by this flesh and bones that will never find peace
But eternal battle

These naked lovers, these soldiers amorous
Will never be lost again among the race of the not living nor dead
That came simply to feed and easy to die

There is a bull under your fragile body
Fiery, galloping, raging
Hot blood dripping from the open wounds
Inflicted by the hands of the running criers
Cowards!

There is a bull under your fragile body
With fire in the dominant eye
Storming to charge into the fortresses
Clashing with wall and steel and daggers

There is a bull under your fragile body
Raising the flames of hell to free you

Lotus Eaters

2010-10-24T14:02:00.001-07:00

We will make love everywhere and anywhere, on buses and trains and aeroplanes, in dark alleys and in fields of golden corn. Your shameless form is tattooed on my eyelids and breathes heavy in my imagination. I'll bend your shape to my desire and take your body with vigour and passion burning like a newborn star. We'll build a pyre of sensual excess that will make the heavens blush; we'll indulge brand new sins on a carpet of fleshly delights. A secret sexual cult, renegade bodies in tight wet embrace sinking in the honey of their delirium - fucking hard until our eyes flip and our voices rip the sky - a collision of hips, lips losing their way - squeezed breasts, fingers grasping - wanting more and more. Insatiable in our delirium, naked messengers of a new god. Grinding pelvis to pelvis - sheathed and enfolding, pressing and roiling like mating alligators in fierce embrace. Mouths pressing in sweet agonies of discovery and exploration - cunt warm inviting velvet glove - grips cock in slimy ecstasy. The fucking, heaving founders of the new religion - rapture.

Steppenwolf & Lolita

New Gods

2010-10-22T01:42:00.000-07:00

Let us live on Himalayas high where we shall dine on honeydew and slake our thirst on ambrosia sipped from cool mountain streams. We'll don the saffron robes of Shangri la and consort with Eagles from eyrie's unseen by human eye – from where we'll direct tempests to torment the land below and conduct lightning from our finger tips. They'll call us deities: they will offer flowers and fruit for our benediction and sacrifice the Lamb in our honor. They'll cower from our wrath and bask in the sunshine of our glorious, beneficent smiles.

We shall be as mighty and obscene as newborn Gods feeding each other passion’s fruit. Our eyes with arrogant and desirous gaze shall outshine the sun. Let us bathe in the warm waters of crystal seas, touching our tender bodies in slow floating dance, sipping dark verses from each other’s lips. Let us dare leap from the highest peaks of our ecstasy into the depths of our empire, let us be fire.

They shall build temples in our honor and chant our names in the halls of silence. We will enchant their children with our sweet music and call them to dance on the pipes of Pan. The creatures of the forest will learn to speak - so they too can sing our praises. We shall make a funeral pyre of all that went before and wipe the Earth clean of all obscenity and indulgence. Striding the continents we shall deluge the hollow minions of mundanity with our disdain and feed the youth with dreams of ascendancy. "Rise up, rise up" we sing - "cast your chains into the ocean: a new age is born unto the elect, mankind is born anew."

We'll stamp on the servile, unctuous shit monkeys who fritter lost hours in how and why - and crush those who oppose with merciless glee. Sovereigns of the here and now, voyagers of mysterious union - travailing under rewritten constellations. We will devour this world in all her majesty; we will gorge ourselves on the great feast of experience. We who hold to no horizon: the emancipated children of the earth and sky.

by Steppenwolf & Lolita

To all the powerful, young, wild and beautiful

Ad Infinitum

2010-09-30T04:15:00.000-07:00

I don’t compose verses, I bleed them.

I, a shadow writer,

an absentee manifesting in emptiness,

a refugee in a tre bizarre momentum,

disappearing in the dawn of Armageddon,

In the eye of the Anaconda,

with taste of laudanum and arsenic,

spill this warm blood graciously.

Sharks hunt in these waters.

I don’t want to live behind the dead man phrases

I don’t want to serve in the constellation of the weak

I want my Imperium

I want to feel the beautiful uniqueness of my existence

Streaming through me

I care not to save anyone, yet I will fight for the savior

You can call me a bitch, but who do you think you are.

You can call me cruel, but who are you to judge.

I don’t want to sleep with mice.

I want to fuck a Lion

I want to kiss like there is no tomorrow

Words of Thunder, Bones of Steel

2010-09-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

As the last royal roses, ravished by the north wind knight
Shed their virgin scarlet petals in the sweet milk of moonlight
Looking for the hidden place, the hardcore pain killing verse
Penniless, stop to kiss, we, the landless lovers of the curse
I’ve pounded my voice to the witch for a pair of used legs
You’ve sold your poem for two coffees, a toast, jam, and eggs

Don’t speak to me of the little birds and the evil flowers
Wrapped around your skin I want to spend our last hours
Trembling, as I whisper ”I hate you”, softly in your burning ear
You grab my wrists, you pull me close, you hold me till in you I disappear
As you take this wanting flesh, in the rain, in the mud
I feel your savage heart, the secret longing, the hard on, the blood

In eternal hunger for the taste of life
I caress the smooth tip of your knife
I don’t bounce off clouds, or sleep with butterflies
I walk on broken glass,I cheat, I steal, I tell lies
I've lost the redhead Gerda, I've sined
I killed the vicious cruel Snow Queen
I hide my nails, I shut the light
I kiss, I lick, I fight, I bite

Words of thunder, tears of rage, broken will
Crushing upon the city's bones of steel
Play the cold chords of Airport exit blues
To lovers parting, to ragged doll with burning bruise

Close Encounters

2010-08-30T07:43:00.000-07:00