House of Freaks


I went towards the timeless ocean of temporality,
to the very beginning, on the shores
of cursed waters where dead faces grinned

Speak will I not of the terror I saw upon the rough-hewn coast
may evil see you, black tooth bite you
and fume its pungent breath into your soul –
they pull my sleeve, pull me with them,
as I scream and fling stones at them,
and whichever I reach out for, they kick it hard,
and this lasted for a while, until they fled.

 

As is the circle that gone around this heat
I walk like a sleepwalker, through memories.
who may they be, they whose violence can’t be undone, like filth
which nature makes all roundabout in this sick land?

Whose land is this?
The witch smacked her hands together,
demons came out of her evil eye,
and I woke up, seeing it as round and round as the sun.
A dark glow was white in the newly-born day.

 

Here she is. Cathedral front porch.
The Gilded Angel, the entrance hidden
the hour’s missing
under the golden light
and with the body of cherubim

 

I do not want to enter damn thing,
but facing the cruel world in the beast,
fear came over me, it swore at me insanely
and gave me a smack on the cheek.

 

While I quivered terrified on the accusing wind,
and at one moment stopped,
lost in the light
of the merciless machine which kept chugging,
non-stop, looking at me vengefully, demanding more…
my skin is sensitive, it will not endure this.

 

Perchance evokes from its lofty perches
aflame in anger in House of Freaks
time is ticking. Space dying,
on display for carnival patrons
step warriors clad in leather armour, their axes bloodied
with a wicked howl of the wind
More and more near approaching
human chicken tarred and feathered
“We accept you, we accept you”

It took my hand and got me in.

Look. The sign is crookedly placed!
in front of the church!
all of this clowning around,
this house
this wire
this fleur-de-lis
all of this is wrong,
instances inscribes threatening riddles
forcing a finger into the joke
above the shield
a royal crown, with church gates shut!

Where, where are you taking me…
what misfortune is this?!

Miss Good Willa and Her Miss Hyde


Author’s Note:
In its core it is a poem about identity, struggling between good and evil in itself – inspired by a famous novel…
Once, and it wasn’t that long ago,
in a year by a fire-spewing dragon.
with a wofully harried cough of a certain Good Willa
ambassador- ess from the Balkans.
Indeed, it was not Goodwilla just anyone.
This being who is, who has been, will be.
I’m not sure what of ” dis ” Is,
but she did not care who it ” das. ”
or who she is
The being who is, who has been, will be.and how she found herself in the Balkans was a secret,
as well as much rest in her short but strange life.
but then one day she heard a voice:”And the truth is that ultimately it’s less important
who she is than who am – I”My eager companions mock all the races of forevers
under the patronage of the Sumerian goddess Nisaba.
a papyrus plant, at an early age in the é-dubba
wrote my history at  shore the holm-currents house.
I – Jormungand!
I wade onto the devils’ blasphemy
Chiselled inside
The womb of the Sphinx
Where dead Oedipus
Murders father-Chronos
Tied to the flute of Pan
from which the
(un)maker Logos
does not reach. 

I – Draconis!
Mock the cross
And the Chosen Ones
Beaten ribs
His saint-peter-esque
Descendents of the new
Tower of Babylon that quarters
Unborn children.
I – Malice striker!
I urinate into Lethe
Scattered in the heads
Of Pandora’s bastards
I kiss the wound of Caesar
As predicted by Genesis.
Good Willa, had not ravaged my tablet’s house so long
This malignant house for the malignant soul

 

And who the hell’s that daft minded creature, weakling
God Willa drawing neurotics into corresponding intersecting patterns go over here and there and making her trappings, donations!
a curriculum to call herself dubsar and poor feeder
with good-work embellished.
because this is a night the world will be watching.

 

Burned and borned be the offspring of thoroughbred Balkan
The laden-with-glory  seen an afar poor charger
Chased even by Turks on the field of battle,
Over war-steeds galloped over the field of battle
after the Battle of the Horns of Hattin I pondered in this manner:
well-meaning but weak, and exposed by her peers, Good Willa
She was not able ’neath her own perishment to hold!

 

Never again, foul creature, the damn thing will hear you
I, Good Willa now shall this my choice be!
In tones taunting pamphlets,
to frighten extremes into capitulation
A phantasy which bore retreat without intermission
Go away, fox terrier, for had you not been a devilish beast you think you were
Though reaved of your nastiness
of the Princess of the hoary screams
Shall I choose to have a nameless creature
whispers in my ear about the ugliness of man,
Shall I choose to mock them all
with mine unquestionably brittle mind

 

Is this all uttered by a beast in me,
suppressed by evil, and good fame may suffer words:
carrying long lists of Leonidas howling wounds
sword-fury seized in his own glory

as rampart blazed volcano in devil swoop thinking
as free thinker should be in  95 theses
in a deep lyrical outburst that clearly speaks
of the original thought
praises and glorifies the dreamer, saviour and torchbearer

 

On behalf of the Victorians,
I pulled out in the theses gloom
and swore to worship both the sunset and the dawn

The column ordered on worshipping
of the sun, of praising the love,
to the true portrait of passion,
for thousands of spells in dispatch
as  thousand sacrifices that bring about
my perfect victory.

Perfect enemy/Prayer


“Perfection is the enemy of good”, Voltaire

Take from our minds
the mist has strewed
and let us sung the piety dew
that stood and costs.
all away.

for sad storm spare the morning skies
in oh, so, a voice both calm and shook
and let our foaming winter fall
and hear the beauty
of the birds that call perfection

is an enemy.

… thy beauty of thy dishevelled lost
take them, hear them, strike them
vessels of fraud,
fly away,
let anyone’s revenge fear.
lo, mount the stairs to the boiling pond.
the fringe the cringe, breathe through
dreadnought

And out of the great rage
make the balm floam from
innocent’s fleece
persist til tongue was black at drill.
let sweeping rain numb sobbing wind
let shire of cloudlet a pen-and-ink
speak through the luckless wight
The terror-stricken itch
within the fire which blood fatigues
o still, so the voice of calm
Take out from our souls
vroom and grace in triumph
no worst there are nails downward
the middle state between – self – illusion
Had long consumed shot
More speech will not, nor fire fangs sheer and
frightful waves, to give relief of
adamantine
the heart, the heart dissimilar no well then
lull pitched grief and
dwell in cheap shell
fathomed by whirlwind spere
of tympanites in captivity
life differs from his commentators,
end death and
Of forgers semblance
In the echoing day
each day comforts to our sleep.

Sing and fight us
through our terrible lives
of satires obscured on the martial ground
My gods heave, murmuring, beards long
a name to fury had shrieked
a name to
ages cursed with crowned liver
delighted with immortality
Prometheus, I feel your liver
stretch wide the lips of immortal fire
Eaten daily the amorous bread.

As I have come into a dust bowl
With phantoms
yet dripping church moorings
with a cypress hate to weep
let the gentlest voice to game deprived
to burn upon night-foundered infamy

freed mind by this latter
humankind’s nothings
the infamy, on this side of attenuated corners
lies a portion of the penance

Take from our signet
divine, music, philosophy
triplets,
incontinence, all distempered advances
of humankind enlarged prostate

and let us fight goodness with perfection

for sad storm spare the morning skies
in oh, so, a voice both calm and shook
and let our foaming winter fall
and hear the beauty
of the birds that call perfection

is an enemy.

and let us fight goodness with perfection
to rebehold thoroughly learnt
false note
sung by profound chimaera
as the vile misfortunes,
Behold the worm and huddle
in the cruelties committed
the spectacle of humanity
of smoking ashes

and let us fight goodness with perfection,

The conclusion
smote, begin
unpacking
and that is
Redundancy.
But existing (time) vanity
perforce the perfection
who has, and gives
still redundancy.
And that is perfect.

Recovering Empath of Narcissistic Abuse – The Core of Evil


“They are pure demons from hell sent on assignment to destroy human mankind or turn beautiful souls into apathetic monsters like themselves”

When you come to the core of evil you will find nothing – paraphrasing Thomas Aquinas

Tia Collins, RN, Psych, Recovering Empath of Narcissistic Abuse

BIG BIG MISTAKE. You are voluntarily and intentionally throwing yourself to a den of one huge hungry lion.

To expose a narcissist is like forcefully snatching the “security blanket” from a baby. For the Narcissist this security blanket Is called “The Mask”..This can frighten the Narc to the core, bc they DON’T want you to see who they really are..While you may feel justified in frightening a Narc, it’s not wise, because they are very dangerous..They can be unpredictable and won’t hesitate to do the unthinkable.

The Narc may see this exposure as a threat or perceive it as a “Narcissistic Injury”..This May cause the Narc to begin to rage(Narcissistic rage)…If this happens RUNNNNN AND DONT LOOK BACK. The Narc can go to the extreme of abusing you physically, verbally, and emotionally. Like a hungry lion, he would attempt to tear you apart without hesitation.

 

The witch grandmother song


Not far from the witch grandmother song
nymphomaniac and satan
In the cloud of thought, the voice and the body merge.
who wanted death
to the grandmother of north-eastern Siberia?

I could not dream
because I was never awake
I couldn’t believe it
because I knew I could not stand
what I saw I felt, with experience

Just like you will thank me
for I will not bring
my story
my life
Tell me: thank you for that.

Because we do not go through the minefields.
that does not concern us
complete innocence is not among the martyrs
but between the oppressors and the suspicious faces.

A red vigilance spills
scars that are stuck inside.
and collected at a point
that will blink deep inside of me
the only thing more perfect than a poem

Until the water went out
I washed my blood and stones crowned
In my name
and I’m there
and one – no.

Now that´s what I call a threat! (the excerpts from my semi-fictional autobiography, Inscriptions in the darkness, Intro…), inspired by true events and characters


I will translate this demonic inscription in all the world’s languages because I want to at least post this to them on the internet, for them to see, a part of the inscriptions in the darkness, for them to see that I am still alive and kicking. Hurry up, I tell myself, hurry, make it tonight, to the first crack of dawn. I have to do something, all of the dinosaurs resting in me, being revived in that final clench of humanity for me to trick them, to expose them to all humans to see.

Before I kill them all.

I will kill them and this shitty cage will be torn down. The cage they put me in.

Fighting them is impossible. Their world survives, their red eyes are aflame with a glow of a killer’s sword. They chop off heads, eat limbs, and all of it together, as per a deal. They are so well organized that they shit and piss on us, they cut us, so-called normal people, us who also shit, puke, get disgusted, moralize, read Plato, shake after what they do to us, fall to pieces – and they do not stop. But we shit, moralize and read Plato like humans. Not like a…

A cult.

***

How many are there? Hold on, let me count them. Five. Maybe more. They network…I don’t know. Let me see… Maybe three. Does it matter? They count. They know the exact number. They know how many of us men remain on this earth. They come for all of us. I…

When they die, maybe there is some hope for humanity.

Tonight, around 1AM, somewhere in Arizona on an online platform Seven Teacups a consultant awaits for me after I told him, a few days ago with a howl nobody could hear, that I would end it all in order for him to convince me that I should live, and I have been preparing to tell him this story and I know that, just like my mother, even with his professional upbringing, he will tell me – Do it… Terrified, stunned.

Nobody would believe me, nobody will believe me. Not even him, because is it really possible to believe it?

Let’s go.

***

They mold us. When they are done, they use us as manufacturing material, they stuff the remains of our mind in canned food. This way they change the genetic structure of the Chosen Ones. Scientists! Scorpions! One living human system upon another – they transfer the universal genetic code, they intertwine hereditary material of pure, living instinct and submit to it friendship, love, affection, and humanity.

Then they group themselves in chains, they synthesize their stinking fluids of ancient origins in human genes. Thus a gene of wickedness is made.

***

Of their method, wherein he helped me, in part, to work it out, that it is about a particular type of implanting self-possession which is dictated by a trigger, like a revolver trigger which tears down every cell of the HUMAN IMMUNE system.

It is a corpse – a scientist said, former gravedigger, long gone. Or maybe even turned. At any rate, one morning all trace of him was lost.

***

WAITING FOR MORE TRANSLATED CHAPTERS!

INSCRIPTIONS IN THE DARKNESS, Introduction


 

Introduction, WAITING FOR MORE TRANSLATED CHAPTERS!

 

I will translate this demonic inscription in all the world’s languages, because I want to at least post this to them on the internet, for them to see, a part of the inscriptions in the darkness, for them to see that I am still alive and kicking. Hurry up, I tell myself, hurry, make it tonight, to the first crack of dawn. I have to do something, all of the dinosaurs resting in me, being revived in that final clench of humanity for me to trick them, to expose them to all humans to see.

Before I kill them all.

I will kill them and this shitty cage will be torn down. The cage they put me in.

Fighting them is impossible. Their world survives, their red eyes are aflame with a glow of a killer’s sword. They chop off heads, eat limbs, and all of it together, as per a deal. They are so well organized that they shit and piss on us, they cut us, so-called normal people, us who also shit, puke, get disgusted, moralize, read Plato, shake after what they do to us, fall to pieces – and they do not stop. But we shit, moralize and read Plato like humans. Not like a…

A cult.

As I sit here, in my final cage, as the world disappears from my eyes, upon everything that happened, I still yearn for freedom, I laugh and scream, in a fever. I cry, my eyes bulged I tumble like a spirit. I hit my own shadows. They pop out of the walls and slap me. Get out of my head.

Cult, cult, just that word, that shitty word in an unrecognizable square, in a room foreign to it for Lord knows how many times now, in the room number 433 of the landlord number 463, ah the numbers mismatch, everything is mismatched because they have it all.

They are counting.

Today is the last day, after my bloodshot eyes read the final murderous thought, after I set aside the revolver, bought with loan money, which I meant to use to blow my brains out, I sit at the table, and my mother, a living corpse, her hair gray and messy and her mouth slobbering in fear, is merely looking, silently reading this text, this goodbye and does not talk back, does not talk me out of using the gun, the noose, for she knows, she is the only living witness. They took her – for me and with me, and, buried alive, stuffed her like a taxidermy animal! Like those birds forever trapped mid-air, shot with an arrow of the final reaper on earth. Death turns away from us disgusted, does not want to talk to us, the old Gods are dying of laughter, and the devil joins them. Either the asylum or the sword remain.

I will die a hero, but in order for them not to do it to others…for them not to do it to someone else, I will…I will…in the name of humanity, I will get up, grab a sword and like a horseman of death (for I know where they are) I will cut off their heads mid-flight and their heads will be a beautiful flower bouquets that will adorn my dying flowerpot, like that of a philodendron…ah, but you want to know who they are? Is this but a ramble of a lunatic?

How many are there? Hold on, let me count them. Five. Maybe more. They network…I don’t know. Let me see… Maybe three. Does it matter? They count. They know the exact number. They know how many of us men remain on this earth. They come for all of us. I…

When they die, maybe there is some hope for humanity.

Tonight, around 1AM, somewhere in Arizona on an online platform Seven Teacups a consultant awaits for me after I told him, a few days ago with a howl nobody could hear, that I would end it all in order for him to convince me that I should live, and I have been preparing to tell him this story and I know that, just like my mother, even with his professional upbringing, he will tell me – Do it… Terrified, stunned.

Nobody would believe me, nobody will believe me. Not even him, because is it really possible to believe it?

Let’s go.

The first specter was back in school. That’s how they began. They choose the most innocent of faces. Someone you would least suspect. Then you come to a sort of metamorphosis, when a spirit of darkness enters the chosen body, takes control and in the grey matter and its synapses under the owner’s forehead, whether good or evil, crafts a sort of idea, emotional conditioning, they maybe use genetic engineering, Imhotep’s wisdom, Lovecraft’s magic, maybe. I have not uncovered this with certainty. The metamorphosis process lasts for years, without the body noticing, but somehow thinking that the thoughts that were sent by THEM their own.

This is where the separation begins. The tearing to pieces. The introduction of chaos. The whirlwinds in the devil’s plan from whose monstrosity I shiver even now when I don’t give a damn.

Why would a man not accept an offered cup of coffee, a hug, comforting? It was always a group. First the school. They had to choose the most vile, monstrous among them, in a group, to attack me the minute they saw me. It started with silent hatred, despising and revulsion as THE BODY OF THE VICTIM, and I speak for myself, although I’m sure there are more out there, turns towards the ATTACKED BODY AND MIND in the state of metamorphosis.

This becomes the leader of the brood mother. Then the other hornets retreat after they had set the stage. The leader, a turned humanoid, addresses me as ‘dear friend’, he sits in my lap, he even awakens in me if not lust, then the desire for human closeness.

They mold us. When they are done, they use us as manufacturing material, they stuff the remains of our mind in canned food. This way they change the genetic structure of the Chosen ones. Scientists! Scorpions! One living human system upon another – they transfer the universal genetic code, they intertwine hereditary material of pure, living instinct and submit to it friendship, love, affection and humanity.

Then they group themselves in chains, they synthetize their stinking fluids of ancient origins in human genes. Thus a gene of wickedness is made.

The spirit of darkness, it is the world which crystalized the supernatural world of pure unadulterated terror. Subconsciously they work on the victim, and the CHOSEN MIND is chained to its protectors with wickedness.

This way, THEY head the earthly peoples. In time they learned that it’s somewhat more wicked and effective to work on individuals and they invented the method of destruction they used on me.

THE BROOD MOTHER takes info from the virus chain and the virus releases its wrath into the poisoned mind, into the senses, and it slowly creaks open the door of the supersensual world in Man and give him a few glimpses into him being able to sense it all…to be an announcement, a witness, a howl in the desert, only to finally get him in an asylum or make him commit suicide.

I did not believe all of this before, that there was an anti-spiritual leadership, a sacral dragon of darkness, a creation of a sick human mind in a lonely world which suffers for the destruction of the old world and the advancement of the new one which is created, maybe a long time ago, in dark caves of blinded pyramids, somewhere at the dawn of time, caves where select corpses for scientific observation and reanimation tumbled.

They planned this out well, but missed one crucial detail – there are too many writers in the world.

Of their method, wherein he helped me, in part, to work it out, that it is about a particular type of implanting self-possession which is dictated by a trigger, like a revolver trigger which tears down every cell of the HUMAN IMMUNE system.

It is a corpse – a scientist said, former gravedigger, long gone. Or maybe even turned. At any rate, one morning all trace of him was lost.

They use corpses, the most vile, cleverest archetypes of whores and killers…they implant their brains in the human molecule, the dead cell remains dead, but it still multiplies unusually imitating the human immune system, to make it look like human living tissue, but it isn’t. They behave in the early stages of metamorphosis like wise men or somewhat more reasonable beings than the average lot.

It is then that they send the information on a mysterious wave which they insert into the molecule, the brain of THE CHOSEN body, they send the radiation, create a mutation, and it creates a type of hunger, desire to devour an individual it came down on completely, at the beginning of an unconscious process that’s occurring.

This is how a soul starts getting dirty, getting vile and dishonored. The creature, turned, despite looking human on the outside, is but a replica, born in the night, a replica of an ancient corpse stumbling about caves. In order to cover up the deathliness and the enormous wickedness of their plan, the Chosen ones have the fairest faces and words, like hidden knives they were taught to use to pick the victim’s innermost layers of brain cutting their cingulum, with pleasure, a hellish butcher with bloodthirsty pleasure craves blood, reading all of my innermost desires and fears from the deciphered map of the mind. This is when I also go through a metamorphosis. I become a stumbling cave dweller who blindly feels everything up in the darkness and stumbles along the catacombs surrounded by whirlwinds of dread and howls of the killed and the slaughtered and ready for testing. The brain exchange is complete, and the proof of this are the retarded statuses I post on social media and the blood I spit on the screen, upon vomiting – for in the final phase, some try to resist, an unplanned, human, nature-provided ability to shift focus and fear for the bare sense. The optical ability enhances, images of merry demons smiling dance around the iris.

The main phase then ensues, upon the rapid degradation of potential to maintain one’s own I and in this struggle, the eyes expand, bulging in fear, staring at the monster, the shifted human form which has the same countenance, but shaded and bloodied with lack of feelings, whose disgusting, dry mouth open and utter the Kafkian judgment: She is bad, she is selfish and only thinks of herself.

This is where the compilation comes of several entities pretending to be friends, godsisters and neighbors in one singular entity, hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind.

THE MAN goes through the processes of disbelief and self-accusation, for at the end of the day the question of personal involvement in the clash and the following sudden departure of a loving being comes in, a being that uttered a judgment out of nowhere, using the nature-given freedom of MAN to think, to use a flaw in its mind map, while the CREATURE had for years been accumulating the power to submit the man to its own moral metrics and laws of fidelity.

This is the human propensity for the animalistic. This is his propensity to go in pairs and be bound to a pack, they know it. Even if the pack was, in this case, by way of modern technology, made up of a single person that holds meaning to this man which will take a few more appliances with her to completely destroy, compromise and annihilate the person.

1

I was fleeing the city where the first Creature caught me. After a decade of lying down, my tired eyes opened. I was alone, but I got up,. I knew that the provincial folk of K. are nudging and laughing, maintaining that my experiences were, indeed, unusual, but worthy of psychiatric study. This was how I lay, alone, in black wreckage, while my mother, as well as my aunt who still wasn’t transformed at the time, extended their hands, replaced the pledgets on my head and carefully watched me, always from the same point, mildly creak-opening the decrepit mouse-colored door, peeling and crumbling.

I would stare ardently at them.

– I was stripped of control by that bastard the Lord. I was in church… and I saw the Buddhist from Burma standing on his head.

– Poor kid – my desperate grandma would say. No one could transform her. To her even without the Controller the universal reality consisted of no more than a handful of cigarette buds and other than rage at the useless, impotent God who punishes the good and awards the weak, she made her own, by a strange unnamed force, knowledge of something that cannot be known, but merely believed, but she behaved as if she knew. It was her hiding spot.

I wonder if the reason for her immunity to the cult Lunatics in the disunited country and my resistance to it was in fact the golden vein instead of a regular one, the one in our bodies. In hers Russian white flowed instead of blood. I bet that even her blood was white. Like with the popular White Walkers, two decades later, with their thing being to sow the blood and death, stopped by a hero… while in actuality like any experienced Satanist they sold money and water in order to give the weak-minded, like the Turned, the hope that they will live in peace with their zombified brain until the…well, the end of their days.

In that black wreckage my ass was joined to the bed, the femininity was no cause for hysteria, but rather the end horror of it. The grotesque calls were repeating themselves. Still, back then I still believed that the wicked calls are a secret devotion, an unbending pride, a battle not to disembark the ship of illusions that the friendship between me and the monster, called Ivana, was possible.

It wasn’t a friendship I owed moments of erotic bliss. Whenever she was entering my head, she did it with roots, the wind, the breath of tropical sun. Is there anything more sweet for the Controllers than to make that particular misshapen friend deal a powerful blow, with a knife in the chest, and then to devote insane and grotesque calls which left me mute and in the most horrific of pain

And when the Creature sticks a knife in your back, everything moans in bliss.

No, that swift knife did not come by itself from the hand of my beautiful loving friend. This was my fault, me, Aitia, the cause, I did something horribly wrong, shameful and wrong. What? Does it matter? I snobbishly discarded the cowardly lack of will of the people to stand up against the dictatorship of S. M. and peddled at their flaws.

In other words, I was using my distraught brain seek the cause even in my own guilt and burry myself deeper, not have someone else do it, like Mengele, on one of his ecstatic cult-like performances behind the black curtains, but…ah, this is self-examination! This is how I got their attention.

– She requires a more subtle blow… Resistance is too big…I repeat, Huxley, the resistance is too big. – Where did I hear that before? It sent chills down my spine, it pierced through me like a horn, me at lobotomy class and still nothing. They must have planned to leave me here to lie and die. They were too powerful.

I could say so many things of my lying, which was preceded by an awakening, and in it was born a dream and again an illusion, then pain, memory, repenting. Too human. Maybe they’ll cut my throat during sleep? No, I must do this myself for them to mask their existence, and I would liken an insane person and they would become one more victim the richer, those who know of the human mind more than before my death, then the further development of technology of destruction of Man would ensue, right there near the end of the century, on the threshold of the creation of modern man.

I won’t speak of the particulars of me moving to Belgrade, for that cannot be approached in any other way than the old fashioned one: what does a prisoner feel when the jailor lets him go? A neat little zero that I was, a pathetic dying woman with new adventures before her, I made a step into another dungeon, bigger than the first. And the first one contracted, shrunk and tightened into a cellar that pulsates into the mind where locked up demons scream, the slobbering spirits of darkness, and I am sticking my tongue out through the keyhole and stick the tip of said tongue through an old well-crafted jail lock, so let the bastard lick it off, bite it.

Me, poor and nameless, triumphantly felt the walls of my tomb in Kragujevac, while the other Crag-ujevac folk stared at me squinting a tad, not openly wickedly, but rather like they were holding up their breath and the liturgy words of exceptional power and magical pretending that they care that I’m leaving (to a degree they did, at least the ones that weren’t Converted).

But, there were ones who told me that the ones who remained I was looking at with an eye of mockery, as if they were mages, insane and criminals, as if…as if we were the ones who held you against your will.

And it was no longer important what was said, nor the enchanting passion and force behind the ‘Ah, you will come back to us soon’ wickedness with a wink, but a concept of rhythm and tempo wherein the uttered swung enchanted, rooted in the intuition of this spirit of darkness or whatever was sent to get me to pick completely gray, meaningless and messy faces and plant in their mouths narratives, sentences and judgments which their minds, thinking humanly intuitively and wickedly, could not say it at all, because those judgments were uttered with a dark force which the mind of the provincial person which collapses itself into the nothingness of the subject, i.e. itself, with its icy passions, cannot even hate too much. They especially cannot express themselves in that magically silent way in which the great demons terrify, threaten and curse every person who manages to force them out of his or her body or to fight back.

What a speech it was: rough, brutal, yet silent and dark as if pumped with the presence of the spirits there for eons , the true polyglots, storms of words, yet calming, mildly warning, a style much too stylized for these gargoyles, in no way grounded, but rather tactless and hyperbolic.

This is how it would have been, and I explain this in detail for such situations and masquerades performed by the Evil Spirits will go on in what I can now fairly call well-directed film intervals:

A vast gathering around me, out of nowhere, for I had not seen so many people while I was by myself, as if a pseudo-country was forming, a mass of people, conventional shoulder-patting, well-intentioned advice from good people whose faces I have not seen once in my life. Panel:

Soft, muddy picture, then the image comes into focus and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes. Then the eyes spoke with fiery passion and that would last for ten seconds or so on a movie screen.

From the upper corner an unseen ghostly hand recording what is happening down there, everyone who ever hated me, eating sandwiches and sowing leather jackets that I pay on a loan, then all of the things in leather, I cannot even recall all of it.

They filled my suitcase, set aside my things in it as if they were laying my corpse in a sarcophagus . Who are these men? How come there are so many good intentions in this…

Ah, they are counting.

I did not know back then that it was THEM.

Still, a couple of furies jumped out then, a close-up, then in the background. And out of nowhere and unbeknownst to me, they giggle, and judging by their crooked mouths and vile laughter that adorned their faces the shadows danced. And they said, with me neither living nor dead but watching a scene before me of a fury that controls the others moving among these poor souls that speak more stylized than Hamlet when he is simulating…with a movie rhythm that came from the perfect juxtaposition of all the insane panels:

– This is now your celebration! And we perform our craft packing your suits, consciously, how we were ordered.

They then bowed and disappeared.

As I jerked myself out of that dream, I understood it the way I should have: a volcanic explosion of stress, a creative dream of a wannabe author, a young rising writer who never really started rising, whose first and final stop was the Damned Mire.

And from now on this is what I’ll call Belgrade. And of Belgrade itself and the triumph of bleak oafs whom the hunger for stealing and devouring of souls, those turned as well as the simple ones, regular ones, harmless bandits lead to me I will devote an entire chapter someday. Migrants. All of them migrants, they shouldn’t be judged. All human, like one, always seeking something and striving towards something, all of them vicious, worried about their own hide, they bow to themselves and their carelessness repeatedly.

But neither the bandits, nor the ever-present scum, that crafty thief in the night, sleepwalker, liar with a crippled child in his arms, nor the killer tricked me, nor awaited for me, but indeed the faggots did it first, and then the yurodivi, the church flowers of evil.

And I will devote a special part to the first Ethereal Archbishop of Evil, called Hermangandar, for this schismatic cultist, hieromonk apostate, he was the first to welcome me to Belgrade, he, the Presbyterian of the church embezzled on the schismatic Convocation where his followers were taking Communion. The silver-tongued told me clearly that nothing but self-exile awaits if I do not do what he would do for me had he won me over, me, the detractor of his Divine presence on Earth, this Protosyncellus who became prominent on this cultist website where they got me in a dialogue with those cut off from everything good, clean and honorable, sexually speaking.

And now comes the history of the events of sense provided in advance where I will list them ALL, their names (this is where they get weaker, watch films and listen to myths, there is truth to that…), write them down, through all of their trickery, cheating of existence, metamorphosis of directed betrayal, and even bloodshed. And when I jot them all down, I will await my trial, I the spirit who follows her fate as if it were the fate of an avenger, my head on a stump, the only given possibility.

The spiteful spirit writes it all down as it were, chronologically, for them to walk first along the facts of my handiwork, to read…

Until they tear off all their clothes and fingers.

With claws and spikes.