Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: artistic ruin

  • The Swamp Of Oblivion And Ineptitude

    The Swamp Of Oblivion And Ineptitude

    The swamp of oblivion and ineptitude submerged every enchanted wonder. Shattered marvels were piled up among pieces of dolls and puppets embalmed by the cold, among mummies dilapidated and drowned in oceans of decay and putrefaction. Precious and royal jewellery was swallowed by a crowd of greedy and ravenous ghouls, under the indifferent gaze of the Tyrant Crone, a terrible creature devoted exclusively to the destruction of all the most magnificent artworks of her realm and to find carnal pleasure with a pack of Disposable Playthings, her Puppetgirls, ready to serve their dominant mistress with their bodies and obedience, ostentatious frivolity and shallow fragility in change of money, expensive gifts and prestigious social positions.

    Meanwhile, in this doomed realm of sleaziness and decay, every part of the royal palace was falling to pieces and rivers of latrine water invaded numerous halls and chambers. The catastrophe was already at its culmination, but despair and dismay weren’t known among the vicious inhabitants of the Temple of Collapse, once a marvellous and extraordinary castle. The pavements disappeared under piles of mud and rubbish, and all the historical statues had been replaced by sculptures portraying the mercenary Puppetgirls, in all their most ridiculous poses. The largest and most prestigious temple on the planet had been transformed into a sewer, where every art chef-d’oeuvre had been demolished and reduced to dust and slime.

    Among the Marionettes there was Slashed Putrid Pastry, a ridiculous maid with duck lips, snapping selfies in bathrooms and elevators, one hand forming a heart gesture, all pretence and performative croissant seduction, showing off pricey chocolate boxes, necklaces and tea porcelain sets that her decrepit mistress granted her besides rendezvous in restaurants and secret alcoves of lust. Some statues portrayed la Smokey Faux Fatale, always sprawled on luxury beds scented with antique, expensive perfumes, gifts from her Tyrant Crone mistress for the girl’s obedient submission. The time passed in this kingdom of wreckage and abandon, and hot coffee was poured into fine porcelain sets by the Literary Call Girl, one of the harlots of Tyrant Crone.

    Not a single high-ranked servant of the Tyrant Crone dared ever to utter a single hiss of protest and objection, or their heads would have rolled on the muddy soil. Even the mirrors strove to distort the image of their Supreme Sovereign to make her appear good-looking, when in reality she was monstrous and hideous. Nevertheless, the aristocratic Tyrant Crone disdained everyone but her harlots, authentic lustful courtesans, always ready to indulge in carnal pleasures at her command. They gathered in their favourite putrid galleries and celebrated the demise of art and beauty with squalid debaucheries among smoke-blackened pastries, spoiled coffee cups, and the disgusting remnants of indulgence.

    The penalty for every single Puppetgirl could have been her expulsion from the secret society of the corrupted Tyrant Crone, who lavished all the art palace resources on gifts for her Marionettes and private lascivious bacchanals. Every masterpiece, precious relic and every echo of grandeur had been utterly obliterated, irretrievably lost, swallowed by the diabolical design of the monstrous entity, our beloved Tyrant Crone, and her faithful circle of mercenary courtesans. Day after day, our heroines paraded in ostentation and licentious celebrations, trampling the sublime under their stinking feet, as if the annihilation of beauty and magnificence were the apex of their pleasure.

    Nothing could have been restored and nothing remained but dust, decay and the relentless laughter and sneers of those evil ghouls who thrived on ruin. Nevertheless, the dear Tyrant Crone was there to subjugate both her concubines and her most servile collaborators with lashes and dominion, like an absolute overbearing and disgusting despotic sovereign. The reign of oblivion and annihilation had triumphed, and all lay in ruin, fractured beyond hope; every fragment of splendour erased as it never existed, and extinguished, drowned in the abyss of decay, full of lust sweat and filth.
    Elisabetta Esther

  • Stars And Love In The Gilded Temple

    Stars And Love In The Gilded Temple

    Stars and love in the gilded temple of painting, where pastries and mediocrity were scattered like breadcrumbs on wooden floors, and mediocrity strutted in sequins, flaunting a shallow decadence and ignorance as if they were sublime artworks. Fringe Smoke, with a cigarette held high like a crown of absurdity, ascended the stage with her phoney allure, composed of black veils and vintage diva attitudes. Sugar Puff managed a last-ditch performance: duck lips in elevators, mirrors, and gilded entrances; her book of pastries and amorous fancies was gathering dust, her fame a whisper carried only through the clownish echoes of paid applause; her obsession was a freak show, a crime-comedy, a circus of imitation.

    Meanwhile, the haughty café girl was humming seductively inside the run-down building. Their beloved mistress, Decay Queen, reigned with an iron fist in one hand, while seducing her young girls with soft feathers to secure her whims. Fringe Smoke strolled across the cracked, ageing marble, her fingers fluttering as if the crowd were applauding with every step, her hips swaying in a futile attempt to imitate elegance; Haute Couture Hysteria fashion perfumes draped her like a fading ribbon of believability, every pout, every smirk a dramatic deformation of the truth, cigarette ash falling like confetti onto the frescoes that peeled and mocked silently.

    Decay Queen, swollen with self-indulgence, oversplashed her flock with precious jewels and pricey scents, each gift treated as a token of obedience, every flourish a display of vanity, her generosity exaggerated, her self-esteem gargantuan. The young gals, many years her junior, adored and faltered in confusion, while the art templum suffered under the weight of centuries of neglect: rafters sagged, floors slanted, frescoes wept in colourless sadness. Foreign and local newspapers whispered of imminent collapse, yet she lay in her castle of luxury, measuring allegiance through pleasures, secret love affairs, and flashy gestures. Every mannerism teetered on the verge of ridiculousness, as if the sanctuary of art itself were ready to collapse at the screams provoked by her antics.

    Meanwhile, the café girl twirled with purposeful innocence, pin-up smiles glued to her face as if they were wallpaper, dispensing literary advice with the grandiosity of a stage actress; her gestures were enormous, every word hollow, echoing emptily through the gilded corridors. She was merely a living prop in the drama of absurd ambition.

    Perfume, smoke, and sugar swirled in a toxic storm. Fringe Smoke flicked her ashes like a jester in full parade; Sugar Puff flailed frantically in obsessive submission; the café coquette gestured like a puppet on invisible strings; and Decay Queen gazed down upon them all with a victorious smirk, the queen of rot, lavish and ridiculous, lavishing fortunes on whims, whims on vanity, vanity on chaos.

    The grand temple of painting itself, a monument to centuries of human achievement, creaked, groaned, and whispered; its frescoes curled, marble cracked, mocking every over-the-top gesture, every insignificant ambition; its shadows shattered, floors trembled, ceilings sighed at the endless parade of fools.

    In this theatre of folly, extravagant lust, promiscuity, and grotesque desire, every perfume, every sigh, every desperate glance celebrated rot, and the gilded halls that were once the sanctuary of beauty and eternity had become a stage for caricature, their echoes filled with sorrow and grief, sighs, quiet tears, and fatal surrender, while the absurd court carried on with its never-ending, ridiculous, and bacchanalian spectacles of folly.
    Elisabetta Esther

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