Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: corruption

  • Melancholic Discomfort

    Melancholic Discomfort

    Melancholic discomfort was a mirror to my soul. Dead leaves fell with sadness. Sorrow grasped dreams and delight. The abyss of nothingness extended its boundaries. Delusional visions became gloomy shadows. Portals of darkness were sources of uncertainty. Illusion was reality but not anymore. Distances become journeys to surreal realms. Deceitful hopes were invisible traps

    Silence hushed me as an imperious order. There was no prophecy able to entangle my fate. Everything was distorted and hypnotising. Obsessions clutched my heart with nails and quills. The horizon was shrouded in haze. Only darkness was guiding me in a labyrinth of bitterness and revenge. I saw squalor swallowing magnificence. I heard the screams of joy of demented fools. Their claws were embedded in precious paintings

    At night I woke up overwhelmed by the moans of pain and dread. It was the visitation of those who had no voice. So many times, I wished to keep my heart in oblivion. But it was never the case. They came and their poison penetrated into my heart. I kept myself faraway from each one of them. At the end, my dreams had opened my eyes and I saw everything.

    It was too late and too soon. Time had no sense anymore. Nothing made sense anymore. Everything had become a dark nightmare. There was no escape. There was no salvation. I had been punished for having seen too much. Beyond any imagination. As if nature could have welcomed me to another realm. Where I was free from other mediocrity chains.

    The mist enveloped me, as if it wanted to protect me from seeing things that would dishearten and hurt me. I had been shamelessly copied by horrible ghouls who scrutinised me with envious and treacherous eyes. Copycats who used my lipstick, strove to reproduce my portraits in a grotesque, ridiculous style.

    Mediocrity and depravity wanted me to hush, because I had revealed their appalling secrets. But the wind was my ally and it brought my words to all the domains. My heart has been shattered and devastated. I had become a shell of myself. I couldn’t recognise my countenance in the silvery surface of cynical mirrors. I had no dreams anymore because I had lost any desire to survive.

    I was just a shell of myself, a ghost devoid of every hope to find the delights in a lugubrious existence. Touching the gelid walls of a house made of memories and bones, I was reminded of the several losses, deaths and funerals, which were entangled in my heart. I had lost everything that was very dear to me in an indissoluble manner.

    I felt a melancholic discomfort like sharp nails piercing my heart, and an absence of noise, as if I was already dead before dying. Long nights expired slowly, as though they didn’t want to leave space for the daylight. I was annoyed at the thought of seeing inept and mediocre beings wallowing in a world filled with cornucopias and treasure chests.

    I constantly felt like a creature condemned to see what I didn’t want to see. Squalor, venality, superficiality, and idiocy were served on platters of gold and gems as jewels of admiration and wisdom. I felt so disoriented and emptied of all my desires and dreams that I didn’t even know what I wanted to do with this miserable existence anymore.

    All my anguished thoughts turned into raw, unfiltered words. The sense of deep disappointment had disarmed me and I no longer knew what to do. Countless times I had lost myself and never found that part of me that had faded into oblivion. Mediocre, superficial, and flashy mortals had shamelessly supplanted me.

    Their grimaces in front of the cameras and idiotic poses had dominated the scene along with their bottles of luxurious perfumes, their exorbitant chocolates, and their sumptuous jewels. I saw marionettes devoid of any kind of decency, which were crowned queens of a fallen kingdom made of sewer debris and the dust of depravity. 

    I sat under a dead tree in the garden of disillusions, I was already exhausted by my existence, as if I were no longer capable of moving forward. I had given up in the face of the devastation and desecration of beauty and art. I didn’t want to be part of that bestiary that reeked of putrefaction and latrine.

    But at the same time, I felt helpless because I could not save what had been cruelly torn away from me. My shattered heart stopped beating and turned into a heavy stone that made me fall into the abyss of perdition. A deadly slumber had captured me, and I wept for the lack of dreams.

    The melancholy of the memories of what I lost overwhelmed me like a stormy sea. I felt helpless in the face of a tsunami of catastrophic events that had infested my life. I didn’t want to know anything anymore. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore. I didn’t want to love anything anymore.

    I locked myself in a refuge of perpetual silence, shunning everything that had damaged and scarred me. Every form of bliss was relinquished since I had become a shadow in a world that didn’t belong to me any longer. I shunned the realm of degradation and profanity.

    I had embodied all the despairs and struggles that had chased me, now that I was a shadow in a realm of darkness and descent. Dressed in fragments of forgotten beauty, I wandered aimlessly as if fate had abandoned me. A gentle breeze of restlessness and sadness enveloped me, as if to remind me that I still had a heart.

    The hiss of loneliness was the only sound that constantly accompanied me while I could not find a horizon or a destination to follow. I had regained myself by losing myself in the void, with the hope of forgetting everything that had erased me. I vanished like an evanescent cloud at twilight just before the eternal night came to announce its hegemony.
    Elisabetta Esther

  • UNTITLED EXTRAVAGANCE

    UNTITLED EXTRAVAGANCE

    UNTITLED EXTRAVAGANCE
    Pricey chocolate boxes
    Rocking horses
    Chantel perfumes
    Sweat of lust
    Monumental age gaps
    Low-grade romance tropes
    Obliterated artworks
    Puddles of broken puppets
    Greed and perversion
    A celebrated decadence
    Opulent bacchanals
    Filth and corruption
    Depravity at its climax
    Duck lips and finger hearts
    Desecrated magnificence
    Abyss of oblivion
    Cracked paintings
    Rain of latrine
    Tyranny and abuse
    Second-rate pastry and star books
    A vortex of folly
    Rot and rancid cakes
    Eternally lit cigarettes
    Loss of liberty and dignity
    Fires and floods
    Stink of restrooms
    Delusional comparisons to vintage divas
    Black veils and empty brains
    Commodification of body parts for expensive gifts
    Beds full of raw mating and hearts vacant of love
    Bathrooms and elevators as stages of squalor
    Luxury chocolate boxes and museum tea selections
    Traditional and distinguished restaurants
    Bathtubs and beds stained by carnal transactions

    There is no longer a remedy for the irremediable when the Great Museum of Art is inhabited by madmen and usurpers of beauty and sublimity. Every hope is shattered into pieces like priceless jewels fallen into the oblivion of ineptitude. The only thing that you can exclaim: ”Oh my God is that really possible?”…”Where had dignity been buried??”

    Desecration of beauty and culture flaunted in our faces by a squalid and rotten crowd of miserable servants and mercenary courtesans led by the Decayed Crone. Corpses of sculptures decomposed under a sea of ​​sewage and mud. No words could have expressed the complete horror. Corrupted bodies of marionettes covered by elegant dresses strove to get the benefits of all sorts.

    Rotten pies and cakes filled with poison and deception, luxury vintage perfumes scenting foul-smelling beds with dirt of lust and predation. Scattered books vandalised with dark markers by a depraved courtesan from the court of the Decayed Crone, an unscrupulous usurper of power. Hellish giggles blend with moans of pleasure at every meeting of the Infernal Ghoul with her demented mercenary courtesans.

    A bleak economy of flesh, where women’s bodies are traded like currency under the iron grip of a Decayed Crone, rewarded with gifts, wealth, and social status in exchange for obedience and degradation. Bathtubs and video games for daily lavish rendezvous between Scarred Cake and Decayed Crone, when they engage in luscious plays, recreating the roles of beloved granny and toy maiden.

    Rancid coffee was always served in fine porcelain sets with cigarette smoke and vintage phoney in brutal trysts where Scarred Cake was showing off a pink dress and the necklace the Decayed Crone gifted her, surrounded by boxes of lavish chocolate bonbons, rocket horses and museum tea selections. Amidst all this, Smokey Chantel, another courtesan, showed her senior lover the list of prestigious perfumes she wanted as gifts along with wads of cash and assured social positions.

    And the bells rang well in the Great Museum of Art, Uncultural Coffee, the coffee cup courtesan had arrived with heaps of unread books used as ornaments to mock the unsuspecting crowd whenever she dispensed volumes of wisdom from sagely grandmothers and tomes of love and feminism, all delivered with languid glances and nude outfits. Culture was just an option and a phoney label misused to hide degradation and frivolity.

    Fragments of masterpieces were scattered amidst torn paintings, puppet heads, chocolate packages, worn-out pleasure toys, burning gems, emptied liquor flasks, broken video games, lists of end-of-year recap and vandalised books. The historic pavements were covered in rubbish, duck lips, finger hearts, stale perfume bottles and pieces of coffee cups. All the sculptures were going to be pulverised and precious gems were swallowed by the void.

    Artefacts and visual relics were parts of sacrilegious compositions of rot, filth, rotting marionettes, and decomposed toys of flesh. In this apocalypse, the infernal circles of the Decayed Crone and her loyal mistresses, Scarred Cake, Smokey Chantel and Uncultural Coffee were celebrating with licentious feasts and putrid sugar parties, and they were praising the definite decay of art, beauty and culture.

    The malevolent Decayed Crone orchestrated her personal School of Arts, seducing and ensnaring the most fragile, unstable, and pliable prey. Depravity masquerading as feminism, manipulation disguised as a defence of women’s rights. A real cave of shadows and depravity, where ancient walls were falling down like dead leaves in a winter storm. Broken mirrors reflected distorted faces and the artistic heritage was considered an enemy to be exterminated.

    Each gallery smelled of burnt parchment, putrescent pastries, and the nauseous sweet potion of fear, a heady cocktail designed to intoxicate and subdue. Candles flickered over velvet cushions and cracked porcelain statues, while Decayed Crone amused herself with her childish and ridiculous courtesans, who were focused on taking selfies with duck lips, rancid lollipops, elevators, restrooms, hand hearts, black veils and long dress trails, cigarettes and poses of low-grade seductresses.

    Why protect the heritage and avoid the obliteration of the most magnificent masterpieces? On the contrary, the annihilation of every form of artistic beauty was the fundamental aim of the tyrannical Demonic Crone, who found delight and bliss in subjugating all her submissive collaborators and her beloved dramatic harlots, besides in annihilating and erasing every form of gloriousness from her realm of devastation and disintegration.

    The Great Palace of Majestic Art fell to pieces, while these dunces, Demonic Crone courtesans, together with their matron, celebrated, inept and utterly unconcerned with the havoc unfolding around them, trampling with sadistic pleasure the debris and dust of what were once wonderful works of art of inestimable value. Between snickers and sighs of pleasure, this gleeful company merrily entertained themselves, spending their time in destruction, lust and wickedness.

    Not even the most impetuous storms could purge this squalor, because nature itself had surrendered. Even darkness and light together with all the cosmic forces refused to accept such an abomination but nothing could halt this indomitable process. The stars and the moon were watching in astonishment at this atrocity. Nothing remained but the hollow echo of devastation.

    Art has been profanely slain.
    Monnalisa has been sacrilegiously slain.
    I have been slowly slain.
    AN UNTITLED EXTRAVAGANCE by Elisabetta Esther

  • The Frial Realm Of Doom And Decaying Art

    The Frial Realm Of Doom And Decaying Art

    The frail realm of doom and decaying art had become a living nightmare like a monstrous creature of the Underworld. Where has the critical sense of reality gone…everyone licking the latrine of wrathful and authoritarian tyrants? Even in cases when the abusive power was so discutible and obscene like putrefaction, the crowd of loyal servants and concubines were following step by step the outrageous path of their inglorious sovereign until the abyss of oblivion and death.

    The most wonderful masterpieces were shattered into pieces and subjected to games of power and prestige without scruples and with cowardice. Shivers and tremors enveloped me like a frantic spiral of oblivion and destruction. I couldn’t accept it anymore and part of me didn’t realise it as a factual truth. My heart bled infinite rivers of sorrow and dismay and I stayed muted; since that day I had lost every memory of the sound of my voice.

    I could have cried all the tears I possessed but they couldn’t wash away the carnage I had witnessed. And I could smell the rot and the sweat of obscene acts that the abusive tyrant poured on the exquisite and delicate masterpieces while the ignoble monster bred with his young and mercenary mistresses one after the other like plastic dolls to be used and thrown away as needed.

    Overwhelmed by a violent storm of disconcerting disdain, I witnessed the complete obliteration of beauty and magnificence. I could listen to music from a broken record and touch the dusty debris of what was once an icon of royal grandness. Pieces of plastic dolls, reeking of vintage perfumes, cigarette butts, pleasure toys, and rancid pastries, coffee cups and worn books were splattered all over the obliterated artworks.

    I saw erratic figures of harlots exchanging pieces of their bodies for money, social favours, extravagant and expensive gifts with their dictatorial exploiter who emerged like a gigantic figure over them, settling their movements like a real puppeteer, and using these empty puppets like a pastime of lust and exploitation.

    The mercenaries of pleasure, money and power periodically agitated to attract the attention of their master with pseudo-attractive attitudes, fake sophistication, patched-up supermarket culture, elevator selfies with fake diva poses. Who was the next one in the eye of their beloved haughty and aristocratic ruler? Who would be the chosen one that day?

    Who would be given the privileged bed after invitations to renowned restaurants and meetings coordinated on Instagram stories? Perhaps the courtesan named the croissant queen would be the winner after all the selfies she took every day in every mirror she came across…

    Stupidity and ostentatious superficiality were essential for the tyrant to ensure that his courtesans had no critical sense… In the end, the less the plastic dolls thought, the grander the show became… What sense is there in having a critical sense of existence when you can live like a lifeless puppet, filled with rot and decay???

    And in the meantime, the girl of luxury, expensive old perfumes and images of iconic divas was frantically trying to be the next one to be used in bed by her life master. She felt the despair even though she showed several images of women in bed to her conqueror who was busy with other young maidens looking for money, luxury gifts and social positions.

    It was like a circle of the damned where these girls were trading parts of their bodies for lavish gifts, important social roles and money wasted on their bodies while they were tossing in bed with their puppeteer. In this realm of opulence and eros, there was no place for authenticity and truth because deception and mercification ruled this world.

    Love and integrity didn’t exist in this latrine filled with stinking putrefaction and excrement. The bell of another hooker who brought coffee with books rang punctually every day for her master, she walked around wagging her tail and winking as she promoted various manuscripts to her overlord who loved to see her winking in commercial videos.

    And between one damsel and another in various beds, restaurants, alcoves and secret meeting places the supreme ruler, ever more tyrannical and authoritarian, held the strings of his puppets and his employees. And the magnificent works of art in his decaying and rotting palace were now dust of decay and oblivion. There was not even a memory left. Nothing at all.

    Indeed, the master of that cursed temple sneered, surrounded by the retinue of subordinated servants, minions, thralls, and sycophantic puppets, each fawning and flinching at every twitch of the monster’s cruel whim.

    Dear Reader what do you think remained of all that maelstrom? Totally nothingness. An abyss of ruin, of faded grandeur, of stolen beauty, where echoes of vanity and lust still lingered like ghosts over the ashes of forsaken dreams.
    Elisabetta Esther

  • The Realm Of Absurdities And Contradictions

    The Realm Of Absurdities And Contradictions

    The realm of absurdities and contradictions
    A world of pure bliss and madness
    Where dreams get lost and illusions blossom like flowers
    And in the abyss of despair and fear,
    The anguish held me trapped by their chains,
    With which they cruelly clung to me
    In their realm of darkness and madness.
    I, with all my heart, sought a successful way,
    a means to survive those unjust torments,
    But in my hands, I could not find
    a path of salvation and hope.

    The chasm before me made me glimpse my death.
    My future was marked as if my time were numbered,
    as if I could not enjoy the small moments
    That touched my mind,
    because of torment and the certainty of perishing
    overwhelmed my heart and clouded my mind.

    Shadows surrounded my figure as if they could confine me
    to a territory that belonged to them,
    scrutinising me with their cold and cynical gazes,
    Speaking a language I did not understand
    and whispering legends whose secrets I would never know.

    The sound of footsteps following me
    brought to mind all those dreadful encounters
    whose wickedness tore away a part
    of my veil of innocence and integrity.

    The sound of out-of-tune music boxes and grotesque melodies
    created images of folly and paradoxes,
    for I found myself in the realm of absurdities and contradictions
    where beauty was usurped by horror
    and where integrity was usurped by corruption.

    In this realm of hanging trees and hieratic statues,
    fires and flames burned unquenched
    like the brilliant stars in the sky
    whirling swiftly in the firmament above me,
    illuminating the dry, hooked branches
    of a twisted tree beneath whose shadow I had lain.

    Absurdity had become the sovereign of my fate.
    I was now at the mercy of capricious winds and rather contradictory events,
    Just as my miserable existence was entirely controversial.
    Elisabetta

  • The Abyss Of Desolation And Affliction

    The Abyss Of Desolation And Affliction

    The abyss of desolation and affliction appeared to me in a dream.
    I could not tell if it was a hallucination
    or some malevolent spirit that had caught me
    in the torpor of my nightly slumber.

    Spectres appeared to me, agile and winged,
    Their claws etched marks upon my skin,
    As if to inscribe arcane messages
    Beyond my mortal grasp to decode.
    The moon shone bright and awe-inspiring above,
    An eternal night enveloped all,
    Where swirling clouds danced,
    A solemn escort to those shadowy phantoms.

    Figures cloaked in hidden mantles and hoods,
    As if unwilling to reveal their names,
    Lay inert along a river—
    At times, it was a still pond, and at times, it was a shimmering lagoon.

    I felt a weight of oppression and annihilation,
    As if all my feelings and desires
    Had been obliterated in the presence
    Of such a bleak and haunting landscape.

    I could not feel joy or enthusiasm
    At the very moment I realised
    That the slightest hope might be mistaken for illusion,
    Denying me the grace to surrender
    To my senses, to my subconscious.

    I walked with uncertain steps,
    So unsteady was the path before me.
    No clear horizon met my gaze,
    Only shadows stretching into the unknown.

    Having firmly shut the doors of the past,
    I had renounced all that belonged to that world,
    Memories included — or at least I tried to deny them.
    Yet certain ghosts of old, like skeletons risen from nightmares,
    Pursued me wherever I went,
    With steady, relentless steps.
    And I, breath held tight,
    Sought refuge in that realm of shadowy spirits.

    Monsters of a time long lost,
    They watched me slyly from their hiding places,
    Plotting behind my back a possible attack,
    A grasp for power, as if I were a helpless creature,
    Ready to fall into their claws.
    But truly, I knew well that my heart belonged to myself,
    And no one nor nothing could taint it
    With their corruption and decay.
    Elisabetta

© Esther Racah 2026. All rights reserved.