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