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
