Death Drive

Laughter, a new religion. Laughter, a brilliant masterpiece. A melting point between two souls, a reach out for eternity. A dry consequence of idiocy and perhaps a sign of royalty. An intellectual king, laughing at the stock of words her queen is knitting. Soon enough, he’s going to acquire a new tongue to his already aggressive language. The king is his own Joker and the castle yard could not have been more empty of eyes. He likes to carve them out, since he’s in a desperate need of ornaments to redecorate his castle in the season of ghosts. When he looks up to the sky, he doesn’t see darkness. He sees himself times-two. He isn’t waiting for the end of the world, he’s waiting for the fall of his kingdom. When together with the leaves, the people who follow him turn yellow, while bathing in the river that is tainted of those who lost the ability to speak. The king calls himself Thanatos, as a reference to a cosmic joke he himself created:


The King and Thanatos, walk into a bar:

Thanatos: —Mine is the last face you will ever see!

The King: /Tell that to the people that had their eyes carved out by me.                                                                                      /You may be the Lord of Death, but don’t forget who does all the killing!


The king loves to draw with pencil-bones outside of his museum, while observing his meat collection under the frozen surface of the Danube. He loves the way the pieces float, while in the ambient the lives of those who hang by a wire enjoy the snowmen aligned at the castle entrance in order to scare away intruders. They wear the eyes of the slain. The sixteen year old majesty likes rainbows. That’s when he burns the bodies, so that he can enjoy the smell together with the view, as the snow melts at his presence.

As the snow makes way for the herbs, the rough smell of roses inside the king’s dormitory couldn’t be mistaken by anything, as the Ashlyn named ruler enjoys the way thorns tickle his feather-red body. The same couldn’t be said about the maid who didn’t live to see the summer. Perhaps in a world without mighty beings, some might even consider she was the first person to ever gamble. In her case, losing the bet was part of her universal tactic. She hates the heat.

As the Sun is giggling at the sight of burning people, our young majesty enjoys cleaning his artificial puddle of things that he deems unnecessary. In the same manner, he chooses to cleanse humanity by scorching out every bit of liquid a human body contains. At night, his puddle reflects with a crimson shade towards the moon, as the king enjoys the density of blood upon his skin.


He’s quite religious for a believer in the pagan traditions. He associates each form of killing to the sound of Vivaldi’s Seasons.


Autumn is a representation of education, irony and narcissism. The famous Austrian bipolar, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart has the best representation of narcissism through his famous piece called ”Allegro”. The rush of music, caught up with the rush of adrenaline in our yet young king. It seems it’s possible that his eagerness for knowledge caught up with his eagerness for murder, as well.

The cold Winter makes our majesty’s hands warm. His comedy and theatrical aptitudes are somewhat authoritarian. He has a sense of a delicate murderous scene destined for the children of his kingdom to watch,  alongside the ”Blue Danube” flowing down the air. Mister Strauss would be a proud man, unless he’s going to meet any of the Waltzing souls sent by the King himself.

He’s an admirer of nature in Spring. With the frisky winter, his simple, yet rich visions on death changed as well. He turns into a romantic lover and takes the role of a Thanatos sung by the exquisite Beethoven, deaf at the screech of those killed by the kindness of a rose. The idea behind it? Beauty is the harshest killer of all.

The heat of the Summer is the final act of a boy transitioning into a man. The sexual desires appear through Tippett’s symphony that forges a delicate ”psychopath marriage” between the majesty and his inability to feel pain. His strongest desire? Make others feel the pain he cannot comprehend would exist.


Sinfonia da Requiem – III. Requiem aeternam



Alcohol was a vice, as well as a best friend in my times of loneliness. I redecorated my apartment while they were gone. I’ve put the memories of my nephews to sit at the dining table, perhaps they could still feed my ego by telling me how good of a cook I am. However, I am my own critique now. The radio which is stuck on 106,8 MHZ, always plays over my voice murmuring the name of the child that saved me. But that was long ago and now my only salvation lays on the TV playing Columbo every Thursday night, so that I don’t fall victim to the never-ending tears. The mornings are easier than the nights. So are the summers and the holidays, as well. They are easier for them.

When he was one sixth of the age he is now, we always used to walk together to the local market. I taught him the road in hopes that one day, before my withering, he would take the same trip with me one last time. He was a smart little fella’, though, and since his parents lived close by, one day he decided to track me down.

”Everything started with a little trick I did on you, mother!”-I shouted in front of the guests. It was the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. We gathered to pay our respects to him by doing what he urged us all to do while he was alive, ”EAT!”. It was only a family gathering, but I call them all guests, since his death turned us all into strangers. Once again, I was telling the story of how the three years old version of me tried to track him down, back when family gatherings weren’t so dull and dim.

”I found you grandfather!”- he told me eagerly. ”No, Zoltanka, I found you!”- I followed up. He was surprised, perhaps even shocked. He was following a trolley with a woman and her child, when I stumbled across him. For me, it was a post-war meeting. Alcohol was my eternal rival, or so I thought at least.

Growing up with him, even at the late age of sixty, I realized that it would perhaps be this child who would help me fight my secrets, who would replace my rival and for a short period of time, I was right. He looked nothing like me, yet he was everything I represented. I felt guilty to have shaped him after my presence and before I’d fall into my grave, I’ll never find the words to make him understand the horrors of being like me. Alcohol wasn’t speaking in my name anymore. I lost my drunk orator.

‘’ I appreciated the man he was. Slow in motion, yet sharp in thoughts. His words would always come to rescue; his words would always spell my name. I remember those days. The altitude was 4 and rising and we were above the clouds. He always feared me gazing down from his cockpit filled with a jungle of flowers. I waved to the ants that were my parents and quickly made a run for the chess table awaiting. He was upset with the phone, sometimes even flamed it, before returning to his nephew that cheated his way into defeat.’’
I inherited his famous rhetoric, through writing. He was a man of incredible charisma and knowledge, even with his past he was so ashamed to display. I wasn’t shocked hearing the horrors he was hiding from his door to redemption. The tears and the loud crying taught me to look past cheap appearances. In his case, his impulsive and jokey behaviour hid the story of a man destined to suffer.

I’m a man of many identities. I hid my suffering and found shelter in knowledge. Like in a chess game, I was a sacrificial pawn. Like in war, in order to win, you need to lose first. Like in life, in order to gain, you need to feel pain.

Nobody wins in war, nobody wins in life.

She dreamed of the wild

Is it me or is it you when I look up at the sky and see myself times two? I am both the common love and the common enemy. Are you ready to be loved by everyone? Are you ready to be hated by everyone?

I truly feel when I fear.

I feel the warmth of the Sun stroking me. I liberated it from the everlasting night comforting us with lights harvested from her dreams. I feel the soul of my lover. It liberated me from the dark feather attached to my fireside. A small detail, yet always noticeable.

I fear the cold’s kinkiness tonight. It bit me in the act of love. I fear the white feather turning into grey, since the black dot of ink dissolved on this very paper of mine. I fear the twilight switching between my white and black feather.


[…] White feather Vol. I : ”Daytime was only curse and torture for me. The black feather was alive, plotting with the Sun against everything I stood for. My lover was never home. My lover was never mine. My lover never was. He did not have a name or a face at daytime, yet I remember every detail of his missing figure. I named him Lilac Grey, that’s when he was real, when the sky shared the same name as him.

[…] Black feather Vol. I: ” Night-time? It’s in the colour of your cheeks! Flourescent prickles disappear after the daytime leaks. I could grow roses from your eyes! What a juvenile Earth I discovered in you. Would you like a message? I grow my seeds on a musical note which goes like this: ”I loved a girl named Julia once, she would hang me up by my own románce”. A French romance, for the rhyme.

[…] White feather Vol. II: ” What’s your favourite number from one to seven? Death. So five it is then!” Lilac Grey was faceless once again, while Icarus has stolen the show with a million-years-away dying star. He drowned in sunlight, the same way I am. Both of us eager to fly, both of us eager to melt away from warnings.

[…] Black feather Vol. II: The number 5 reminds me of you, a virgin soil. Earth has gotten me fascinated and the lady who owns it, well, she got an eager observer under her dust. But even the dreams of the conquerers die in time. The dream of me ever owning you rests with the prickle-scars, that remind me of death. What a beautiful shape does mortality have.

[…] No feather Vol. I: The everlasting beauty lies in the dreams that are so perfect and so beautiful, and therefore they will remain dreams and you will remain real. I enjoyed the prickles you pushed through my cheeks. I am looking for something to feel.

A dandelion in the drought of my soul

The Roman Empire ruled over the world for DVII years, before its collapse into the dusty abyss of the history books. Today, the number 507 represents merely a hospital bed you’re laying down on, so that a stranger could examine your body that unfortunately turned silent. Dead walls and air that screams. Similar to the long lost supremacy, I lost my authority over a body that doesn’t respond to any types of command anymore and it is awaiting its withering. Either way, I wouldn’t describe myself as an odd person with an extreme low intelligence level awaiting for Heaven and being frightened by Hell, however it wasn’t always so easy to admit idiocy. ”Paralyzing” as the doctors call it, left me with space and time to focus on the things that truly matter. For example, something that has been bothering me for a while was the lack of chocolate and sweets in hospitals. What could be more horrifying than not being able to scratch an itch on the left cheek of my bottom? Sugar deficiency for a child trapped in an old man’s corpse. Torture I tell you! Though as I child, I always dreamed of traveling to untouched galaxies and planets, dance in the invisible dust that would carry me far away from a world of misfortune as Earth turned out to be. I’ve dreamed of becoming a priest in a church with no gates and no keys, no windows and no priests. A church with no Gods to worship, I’ve dreamed. Now, reflection became an everyday routine, redemption became a cure to cancer and as I’m counting down the days remaining until my disappearing, I realize I didn’t use a single one on her. My daughter left this world too early some may say, but I always thought she’s just too precious to waste her spirit on this cursed planet, for she is the highlight of my unworthy soul. She is, because I can still see her everyday playing peak-a-boo whenever the lights turn up or maybe it’s just my doctor deciding whether I’m brain dead or in a dance with hallucination.

”My name is Cato!”. Yes, my name was Cato. Although at this point, I’m ashamed to use it. I’d rather stay silent, anonymous at best. I’m the Latin equivalent of a wise person. A resister against tyranny, a critique of society. Yet, who are the ones opposing our blasphemies and us? Am I ready to meet my maker?

”So tell me Cato, how much do you sleep lately?”
He asks about sleep? Last time I closed my eyes, she was still alive and I wasn’t a junkie, high on nostalgia. Although I’m sure that the so much capable doctors have another terminology for addicts. I should remain silent for the time being.

”Not very talkative are we today, Cato? Let’s trigger some sensitive spots, shall we? What is the name of your daughter?”
The name of my daughter? When she was born, she was radiance and splendor. She was created wisely with the might of the moon. She looked just like my late wife, Alcmena. Her sprit, though, was much like mine. Still, not worth to talk about to a non-believer.

”Have you taken your medication, Cato?”
My medicine is her. We play hide-and-seek every day in the room, although she didn’t grow much since last time I saw her. Juno could not curse such a beautiful creature, could she? Aigla is just one of a kind. I should probably head out and find her; this mortal is just wasting my infinite time.

 ”Daddy, look! I found mommy!’’

Yes. She was the one who found Alcmena levitating like the moon. The dead air in the room was swinging her slowly. There were no screams, my daughter was fascinated about the trick my wife was holding secret for so long. So was I.

On the good days, I have flashbacks about myself happy. On the bad days, I don’t have any flashbacks at all. The only company I get, beside a mind playing movies of the things I hold dearest, are the prison bars, because just like those insupportable humans, they scream at a rendezvous with pain. Alternatively, could it be that they sing? My aphonic soul can’t tell the difference. The same way my dearest daughter didn’t die like a dandelion in the drought of my soul.

Today she’s five. Tomorrow she’s born. Yesterday she died inside my old fireside.


Clichéd il diavolo

You are an arrogant flower, baby. // You are an imperious waste, baby. // You are an autocratic touch, baby. //

I know, baby.

Before anyone beats you to your opinion baby, figure out the hexagonal paradox I am baby. I’ll pardon the cause, now touch me baby.

Are you afraid, honey?

How objectively naked. Everlasting youth, are we baby? I would paint your blossom with the blue ocean, baby. You need some savor to the rich pepper kisses you possess, baby.

Does a Titan get rusty from the moisture of the Universe?

Unedifying nature is violent, baby. People are seducing God, baby. The stellar minds orbit idiocy silently, baby. There’s nothing more to me, than being a fraud, baby.

Mi hai cambiato la vita, dolcezza.

I’ve fallen to the outskirts of the cosmos, baby. I’m battling Titans for celestial seduction, baby. The result of our love turned me into my name, baby.

The devil is not so ugly as he is painted. You’re attracted to me. Questa è la tua caduta.

Perché per te sono il diavolo, baby.


Ephesians 4:26 (844-332)

Now, do you think orgies of questions will reveal the enigmatic evil laying beneath my passion? Earlier, at an art gallery full of disgraceful and disgusting figures, I simulated a laugh. It was a drunken monologue aimed at the confused crowd cheering for a high ending. A shooting site for those who, although having met my charm and sensuality, carried a deep hatred towards me. Perhaps my talent or my position in society made them all act like puppets on strings. Ironically, I was the master behind all of them plastic figures. Directing my own hatred back to its provenance. However, an obscure creature approached me or was it an illusion? The woman who named the Sun, as she called herself. My sweet fireball. She was a beauty you couldn’t lay eyes upon, a romantic mistake created to be put in my path. A well-designed plan, which surprisingly managed to surface the meek and gentle details I hid behind a serious face. In spite of the introduction to my own sensitivity, my ego became a crime scene painted with the eyes I began to despise. There were angry words slipping through liquid remorse, as she kept disturbing my patience while showcasing her amusement. Beauty began to be all that she was lacking. Suddenly, my passion got portrayed as ”macabre and bizarre” and nothing revolts me more than selfish lexeme. Lucky for my pessimistic abomination , a cavalier could never turn down the woman who created daylight. But then again, who is more qualified of destroying cosmic humor if not me?

A Titan and Thanatos walk into a bar…


I saw a reflection of innocence in the blue waves that took me by force. Stellar personality, a solid statement written on a goddess’ invisible nature. It was hard to rupture a response off her mouth, so I proceeded kissing the unsaid horrors of her mind. Hesitant echos, hesitant sights. A wet landslide touched my skin in darkness. Her eyes turned green for tonight, green as the poison that paralyzed our visions on each other. However, our life spawn is short, we can only have each other until the dusk’s disappearance. For when the dawn arrives, death is merely a cliche and well, who am I to carry out the nightfall and hide the morning remorse of a sinner? I’m the definition of a night assassin, shameless in the act of love and shameless in unconscious seduction.