Category Archives: anger
DEVATHAVI
NARCISSUS
(Because there is such a thing as loving yourself too much…)
(All photographs are the property of Yannis Belkhir; photographer/model-http://yayaartpop.deviantart.com/ http://instagram.com/yayasexdreams/ and will not be reproduced without the photographer’s prior permission)
The mirror always tells the truth. It is an unforgiving eye that glows glass-like upon the blank wall. The eyes in the mirror are the windows to the soul of Man. Thus does the mirror tell us the state of out souls….
The words shot around through his mind as he bared himself to it.
In this place he was a king, four walls closing his heart and organ unto none but himself. A vortex of pleasure spun about him as he ran through the words once more.
The mirror always tells the truth. It is an unforgiving eye that glows glass-like upon the blank wall. The eyes in the mirror are the windows to the soul of Man. Thus does the mirror tell us the state of out souls….
The mirror always tells the truth. It is an unforgiving eye that glows glass-like upon the blank wall. The eyes in the mirror are the windows to the soul of Man. Thus does the mirror tell us the state of out souls….
He saw himself inside its glassy depths.
His form had drowned in it a thousand times, as had his wicked heart and his sinful soul. The mirror was now weeping for him, blinding itself for his beauty was too great even for the Lord of Truth.
For how long did he stare into it? What could he see within that he thought was so easy to love, that was so beautiful? Or was it mere passing habit to look upon a tall and smooth body that walked that fine line between masculine and feminine, icy blue eyes and brooding lips? Lips that could bring anyone to their knees with the faintest breath, or the slightest kiss.
The only one he could kiss now was himself.
The mirror.
He was drowning himself in it.
He was in the mirror.
His eyes blinked for a split second, eyelashes brushing past an intrusive housefly. The blue glacial spheres inside the flat glass had an inner glow to them. The perverse sunlight was eyeing him with joy, touching his bare back with its rays and feeling the length of his marble figure. Each touch however could not warm his soul. Both the one he looked at and the one in his body were now untouchable to the drifting gentle flame. A greater blaze was burning inside his body at the time, and his soul perspired with pleasure. The eyes in the mirror had been fixed there as if by an adhesive, never to move away, never to cry. His would well up. His god’s eyes never would.
This was the sweetest truth in his young life.
Four concrete liars surrounded him, hissing under their breath at the writhing soft flesh beneath them. These walls had many patterns dancing across them, floating delicately across the solid canvas. To him they were solid dead behemoths with no souls. His soul was not there, his figure was not within it.
In this, he had seen whales course across the clouds and birds dart through the waves. A black sun, a technicolor moon.
False shapes and hues.
Two hours with a wall was unlike two hours with a mirror. He hated the wall. Why was he restrained in his own home? His deepest wish was to live in a hall of mirrors, to live with only his truth surrounding him. But he moved from mirror to wall. The odyssey from Altar of Truth to Walls of Falsity was hard on his heart and he paused to breathe, heart thundering inside. But the bed beneath him was the comfort he needed now to feel more beautiful.
Silence reigned, except for his beating heart, a drum of creation and destruction of stimulating thoughts. Breaths pulsed through him.
His hands ran down his body, running from his chest down to the dimple of his navel and to the inside of his graceful, firm but soft thighs. His head spun out of focus in that instant, dizzy with heat and excitement. Drowning in the feel of his nude vulnerability was…
“I love you.”
The voice shook him violently, feeling like rusted steel scraped across his spine. He felt for blood on the sheets. Was he bleeding? No…But the feminine voice coils around him like a malign, bloodthirsty mist about to constrict him in its shapeless monstrosity.
“I love you.”
It was suffocating him and he gripped the bed, shivers rushing through his body. An anguished moan tore past his lips. His open palms flew up to his head, whacking against his skull with a resounding thud. Eyes looked up at the wall in horror as the venomous voice ripped through his veins. The untrue wall was now a wall of flesh, the girl who had run after him, a hungry beast in the body of a beauty. Beauty and beast all in one, just like him…but loving him too much. It was like a plague to her. A bane to him, the reddened lips only said, “I love you.”
Her eyes looked straight at him, sorrowful but gleaming with want, a goddess of famine about to put deep desire and hunger into his heart. She was making him want her more, but how could he touch her now? Why should he?
The words came back…
The mirror always tells the truth. It is an unforgiving eye that glows glass-like upon the blank wall. The eyes in the mirror are the windows to the soul of Man. Thus does the mirror tell us the state of out souls….
…but they were back in a meaningless wave. His sobs shook him as she pushed out of the wall, reaching towards him suddenly, grabbing at the air, screaming out her curse. “I love you! I love you!”
He attacked her in a blind rage. The blood rushed to his face, reddening his pale skin. His knuckles met her-met the wall-with a terrifying explosion of pain and anger as he roared through the process. Crying was all he could do, crying and clutching himself. Naked and small, he crouched before the rising succubus on the cold floor, and she advanced upon him, laying beside him, touching and kissing him-but was it himself?
The air in the bedroom felt like jelly, and he was seeing a bloodied blur swirling around him.
He had lost all sense of place…the gorgon’s breath was hot poison against his skin, melting him away….
It is dark.
He wakes up with a terrible scream. Drenched in sweat, spread out on the bed, slimy wetness clinging to his thighs, and sheets cast about him, this is his reality now. Nightmares are such strange things, it seems. Love is so strange too, so he muses. He has been created to feel the heat from himself and live within a world he has made for himself. Nothing else is for him. Thus he turns to the glass god, his salvation on the polished wooden altar. Inside the mirror he feels ripples, something rising up towards him to consume his body and soul…rising, rising up from the colorless waters…something would come, maybe SHE would, or maybe something else, something indescribable would.
The mirror always tells the truth. It is an unforgiving eye that glows glass-like upon the blank wall. The eyes in the mirror are the windows to the soul of Man. Thus does the mirror tell us the state of out souls….
A CELEBRATION OF PLATH
There are many who seem to think of the darkness within them, and all around, as being something of comfort that they can live with. Sometimes they embrace the depths of this darkness so much that it is a part of them. It follows them around like a terrifying shadow which then leads to manic depression and strange episodes which prompt others to believe that these people are losing their minds.
Yet it is no real loss of the senses. It is merely a newer window into a form of creative genius that most dare not tap into. For when they do, they do not tame and properly reconcile with their personal demons, this rare chance to finally see the light gives rise to the most disturbing works of literature ever produced.
Sylvia Plath (October 27, 1932-September 11, 1963) was a woman who thrived within her blackened shell. She wrote guided by her dark passenger’s hand and thus questioned much of what was possible to say within the poetic circle. This was not the horror of the supernatural that Poe was in love with but a new kind of terrifying subject had found its way into her world. This was the creation of a swirling vortex of the deep, dramatic and disturbing. Death, cruelty and even a form of anti-Nazism found their way into her writings.
Her images may be of the heart, sometimes of God, but they are in no way pleasant.
Today the WFR team brings to you a poet who is considered by most to be the patron saint of self-dramatization and self-pity.
DADDY
You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoeIn which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
It is thus extremely clear from this narrative work that Plath was deeply resentful of her father for being a Nazi supporter. He was, after all, German, named Otto Plath. He was also over two decades older than her mother Aurelia, which might have meant something to Plath herself. Clearly the narrative, which is full of short, abrupt sentences tells us that she is driving her point into us hard, and dramatically to boot.
The word “black” shows up a number of times. It is obviously a show of personal darkness, and the darkness inside her because of her father. She blames him openly for her suicide attempts. She had done many of these during her episodes of depression. By calling herself a “Jew” she is using a word for the term hatred since she hates him, and it makes him hate her as well.
MIRROR
NOVELLA
( Because I can think of nothing else to post!)
Minakshi stopped stirring the food in the pot for a second. She saw the steadily lifting mist, although the city still seemed dark to her, the Temple’s titanic tower like a black behemoth ambling slowly towards her house, only to be concealed from her view once more.
Shutting her eyes she told her maid, “Subadhra, send a message to my brother Vasudev. I want to meet him. And tell him to bring my son with him.” And she lapsed into silence, with the middle-aged Subadhra flinging her broom aside and rushing off out of the kitchen.
Ishwari was restless. She had been lapsing between sleeping and waking for so long that she was now bathed in sweat, choli and sari sticking to her skin. Fanning a sheaf of dried banana leaves in front of her and her little daughter, she once more lay on the bed with a gasp. The girl was still half-asleep but she stirred anyway, the small size of the room and the throbbing amalgam of feelings welled up in her mother’s heart, crushing the child inside.
“Mother?” /the three-year old questioned innocently as Ishwari fanned the two of them faster. “Are you alright? Please tell me…” Her mother just kept fanning her, but then sat bolt upright, almost pushing the girl off the bed. “How in the world could I be alright…? I….” Looking at the child with a crazed gaze, she crushed the fan in her hand, reducing the dried leaf to nothing. But her expression then softened a degree when she saw her daughter’s wide-eyed look of fear.
“I’m sorry,” she continued, “but I haven’t been myself lately! I don’t know what’s coming over me! It’s like…I met that Minakshi today and she told me her husband walked off. I should be happy to hear that, and yet I feel like it’s crushing me to death, child! Why?” She grabbed the girl firmly, almost shaking her and making her scream.
“Why not? I could have any woman or man I desired, but the one I want the most, is still so far away from me! What’s wrong with you Minakshi, that you must stay forever far away? What makes you tick? What makes you shy away?”
She dashed to her dresser, with her kohl, oils, jewelry and makeup and turned her mirror towards her. Flinging the cosmetics onto her she then looked at herself in the polished surface of the mirror. “Why? Am I not beautiful enough my darling child? Am I not beautiful enough…for her…? Minakshi, Minakshi, what should I be to make you mine at last? It’s like I’m not good enough for you and yet somehow I must be, I’m, I’m supposed to be!” Thrusting the coconut oil away, she just let her hair droop as she lowered her head onto the dresser.
Ishwari was right. She had almost always been an extraordinary beauty, more than her peers. Her Brahman superiors has told her and so had her teachers. Shiny cinnamon skin, firm but soft, and a winsome dancer’s body with a slim waist and inviting hips, almost any sari or any other piece of the South Indian sari costume looked perfect on her. Men had desired her as a young girl and not just as an adult woman. It was only to be expected of course.
And she’d entertained them all.
“Yashodha,” she finally told her daughter, “my child, tell me why she and only she was my enemy!”
“Mother you’re scaring me!”
“That’s what I told her, damn it! She always pushed me down, beat me till I bled, half murdered me when I disagreed with her, she, my mother, she just never let me catch a break at all! Now she’s dead, I…I don’t expect you to know this Yashodha; whatever I, your mother, am going through, just become stronger and never hate me.” Her voice became dreamy as Yashodha nodded meekly, her own large eyes falling on a familiar scene. “It’s almost a reflection, isn’t it?” questioned Ishwari through gritted teeth, leaning against the wall, head in her hands as she sank onto the floor. “ISN’T IT MOTHER? I was the one on the bed, and you…you…”
How long she stared at the ceiling she did not know, but when she saw a hand stretching towards her she saw what it was. “I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.” She shut her eyes so hard that they teared up, squeezing the salty liquid down her cheeks.
“If you are dreaming, then why am I still in this house?” The voice stung her directly, and she, through her blurry sight saw a huge manacle around her ankle, and holding the manacle was a handsome, stately woman with a sharp nose and hair flowing down her back. She was of dark complexion, slightly darker than Ishwari, but just as beautiful. However her beauty had a fierceness to it, like she was a cruel goddess who thirsted for blood, not just a woman. The sparkle in her eyes was twice as terrifying as an out of control flame up close. She consumed Ishwari just through looking at the other woman.
“Really Ishwari, we both made ourselves powerful through completely dominating all our men during sex, so much that they wanted punishment to be their pleasure. And is this the kind of image you present to your mother? THAT? My dearest….my dearest daughter, please tell me, how is it that this chain seems to become more powerful whenever you…”
Ishwari struggled to hold back her tears.
“SILENCE PARASHAKTI! I don’t want to have anything to do with you and your damned demonic punishments. The years under your roof were torture enough. Why did you build this accursed thing in the first place?”
“Tsk, tsk. I only came to see my daughter and my granddaughter, that’s all. Anyway let’s begin now…” Her voice became dangerously reptilian, taking on the sound of steel scraping against gravel.
And Ishwari felt that she was the gravel.
NOVELLA
(Hi there Internet! Now as you can imagine, we’ve been in a state of hiatus and inactivity, but we have by no means closed shop! As proof here is something to work with. Tell me if there are any continuity issues and I’ll fix them. )
“You’re impossible, I mean…most women would be quite okay with this! I don’t know Minakshi, you’re just not normal. Most men I know, some of them are of high status in this city, and they have more than one wife. They’ve had more lovers and mistresses, harems in fact. Are you telling me that it’s impossible?” He was stabbing her repeatedly with his questions as he pushed away the plate and rose from his seat.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me…” In his heart he felt like he was losing battle, something unlike what he had trained for. She now felt like a powerful shield, iron in frame with many firm leather covers stitched together, doubling and tripling the protection factor. No sword could pierce that, he knew. Quickly he turned to look at her darkened face.
Minakshi said nothing to Brahmarajan, instead sitting down with her fingers toying with a wooden spoon. “And here I thought I knew you. But I don’t care how many bigamist friends you have. I don’t car how many women these so-called lords and commanders keep in their houses, in fact I don’t care if the Emperor himself has hundreds of women in his house. You, Brahmarajan Narasimha, you married me, and you live under this roof, so you’d better start acting like a normal man because a normal man is supposed to be loyal to whoever he marries. Because…I’ve never been with anybody else except for you! It’s…it’s…harder for me…”
Her hand went close to her mouth and her voice felt choked.
He tried to look at her again.
“Never? Even as a young girl? Well, fine we live in a city with a deeply religious outlook and everything, but…it’s not like everyone prays to the gods and does pujas every waking minute of the door. Did you think that that was what Thanjavur was like when you were in the Punjab are up there?”-he raised his arm to indicate the north-“or did your….I don’t know, your…ancestors or something? Because that is not how it works for us! Look, religion doesn’t watch over us like an eye in the sky, alright? There are always exceptions to every rule, and”-
“Shut up! I don’t want to hear about this stupid philosophy, I’m, I’m tired of it!” Minakshi drew in some phlegm suddenly. “And why bring it up? It isn’t even our damn religions that matter. It’s the kind of person we make ourselves to be in front of our child! And he’s five! And you, you go out drinking, probably sleeping around”-
“Enough!”
“What, did I strike a nerve there? Guess I’m not as stupid as you think! So this was it huh? Ishwari was right you know, and now I feel like such a fool for not listening to her,” she continued through gritted teeth, shaking her head as she did, “and, and I…” She choked again, angrily attacking her tears, not even looking at Brahmarajan’s back which was turned towards her. What was wrong with her? She was proud, proud being a woman and a strong rebel against even her own culture, against his culture. She was supposed to embrace and worship him-sure, lots of women did, but even more didn’t, that much she knew-but she knew that she had to have a word in between.
What now? Hands had reached out of the walls and caught her in their powerful, unbreakable net, so she thought.
“You…will…stay…” Minakshi could feel her own slender hands working on her sari, rhythmically unwinding it, the lengths of soft cloth falling off her in a heap. Putting on a giant stream of cloth was not the simplest thing in the world but she always enjoyed pulling it off. Now Minakshi didn’t feel as constricted as she always did. It was like there was a difference between the powerful, domineering south and the heavenly north that she never truly knew.
And now the gap was to be bridged.
A moan erupted from her in a cascade of passion as she held herself against him. Brahmarajan glanced back at Minakshi and saw, from the corner of his eye, her large, perfumed breasts and soft, firm belly open upon him, her navel and nipples gently brushing against his as she turned him around for an embrace.
She started to kiss the powerful form of his neck as she pushed deeper into him, letting him drown in her body and its heavenly aroma. “You will be with me Brahmarajan,” she murmured as she swayed her hips to an unheard beat, gently moving him onto the soft carpet.
“What are…no, no please,” he replied in anguish, trying to move but not touching her, although he couldn’t help but stroke her body slightly, fingertips struggling against temptation and yet screaming out for her now heated skin.
She looked stunned for a minute. “Why?”
“Because of her strength! She is a terrifying force, Minakshi, with a terrible god she chains within her walls. He gives unto her pain and pleasure all at once, partner and torturer all in one. A being against whom there is no defence. Minakshi, I’m trapped. But I can’t help it. If I were saw a tigress would I want to chain her? She is sensuous, fearsome graceful, a wild and dark dancer with blood on her nails and lips. But this tigress is also a witch….a force with the power to shake the heart and turn the minds of men unto her…I…I….”
Minakshi silenced him with a long,drawn-out kiss as she locked her arms and legs around his body. “Speak no more of this,” she crooned softly, “and let’s finish this in the bedroom. We can forget her completely.”
Anguish kept rising in him. “No Minakshi, no, no.”
She guided him slowly, allowing him to hold her body as they both lay down on the bed,
Minakshi lay down first, legs open in invitation to him as she pulled him onto her. For a few minutes she kissed him, then fumbled with his dhoti eagerly. Yet he brushed her hand away gently and sat down on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
LABELS
Photo is property of http://yayaartpop.deviantart.com/ and was used with his permission. It will not be reproduced without the artist’s consent
(This is for the people about whom opinions are so strong that they can’t be shaken off…so strong that they are tortured everyday just thinking of what people will say next…it is not our fault…it never was…)
LABELS
Sitting in a soot-stained dragon’s maw;
Awaiting the flame that will lick me clean…
Burning rods across my chest,
Calling me what I’m not;
Burning irons molten-red,
Scorching my soul again.
See my face, but not my eyes,
Never stare into the windows to find the truth…
But sit in Court, declare me guilty,
Not wanting to see
The reality inside.
Taped across my whole being
Are seals, poisoned stamps.
You tell me “It’s all you” and I tell say “It’s really not”.
To have to read to understand,
Thus is the virtue of Man.
But Man is yet an animal;
Burning down what he does not believe.
This label you stuck on me,
This price upon my head,
Stings me now like it always did,
Telling the world a seeming truth.
He pulled us out as crystals
From our darkened wombs,
With light dancing off us.
Man the Kaleidoscope walks this earth,
Rotating lights shining as a hall of mirrors
In this blackened carnival of dirt.
The aura shone off every of my facets,
But with this new label was the glow
All lost.
And with this carving that you etched,
There ebbed away another shaft
Of perfect crystal light.
Damned to the depths you shall be
If ever a label again you stick onto me!
Where is the room?
How many prices can one good have?
You engraved it into my skin;
I screamed and prayed,
It would not go.
Wounds will heal, but scars won’t fade,
Like this brand they stay.
If another is put on us all,
The blood on the mirror might just be real.
Novella
(I love posting these up…..it’s the shortest novella post I’ve ever done due to being so busy and lacking time to type these in)
NOVELLA
(Because I can’t stop putting these up)
NOVELLA
(There are more parts coming in)