I honestly don't know why I even keep a blogg. Why do anyone?
I suppose deep down I feel like I have alot to say - and that writing down my thoughts is a superb coping mechanism. The problem arise, however, when you time and time again reach the realisation that you are not cut out for blogging.
Thoughts are private after all, and even though I want to be heard as much as the next person, I feel it important to secure my ideas for a select audience. Anyone could stumble upon your blogg; In my case - exclusively on accident. But these people can be anyone; faceless, nameless individuals trying to distubt the sanctuary that should lie within your own mind.
Is that necesarrily a problem? Maybe not, but if you are like me, blogging only because you enjoy the fruits of your own creation - there are better ways of going about it. After all, an anti-blogging-blogger would not be very peased by harsh critisism for something that is only ment to entertain oneself!
Ratgar v. Hucretha is the name of my newest - not to mention most famous stuffed rat.
Not to say that I have a particular inkling towards rats, but this was given to me at a concert - as a first time stage prop,
which is a little funny. Anyways Ratgar is pretty lifeless, yet she (yes she) Makes up for it by the comedy of our acquaintance :3
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am the sparkle in the snow.
I am the shredded leaves that blow.
I am the sunlight on growing grain.
I am the gentle summer rain.
I am the quiet bird at night.
Circling about; Taking flight.
So do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep
The other part (my dad's family) Are gathered up together in one of the nothern coastlines many, many islands. nedless to say, they are very different from "southerners". I find the nickname rather funny, as the capital is tecnically not located "south" of the country... well well.
It doesn't really bother me as much as it does my mother though, as I have witnessed many of these cultural differences as a small child, and been influenced by it myself...
However, whar I really wanted with this post, is to show of one of my cousins new sheep. It sounds really ancient when I put it like that, yet apparantly my northener of a cousin wanted to breed sheep as a hobby - so he did. This one is my favourite. His name was lost on me upon our presentation, yet I call him "Ov Hell" meaning "Of Hell". I found it rather appropriate, truth be told!
Now don't get me wrong friends, I have absolutely nothing against winter. Truth be told, winter is probebly my most favoured season of all. After all, what could possibly be more serene than a forest covered in a white cloak, the smell of fresh - no further explanation needed, as fresh seems to be the mutual choice of words. Winter is also a time for the imagination.A time where every adult relives their childhood through their own children; the look of pure joy upon unwrapping a prolong awaited present, A time where every man woman and child, even just for a few hours forget their mundane lives in favour of a winter wonderland, filled with creatures as far as the imagination is able to withhold. To this day I can still remember 13 year old me running around crazed in the forest pretending to be a lepraucon, hiding from every living creature on sight. And every winter I visit that memory; among others - and I can go out, roll in the snow, slide down hills with no concern about how it must look; because of the knowledge that I am doing what everyone else wish they were..
However, with that said; Sadly winter is also that time of the year where the remorse of what coulda shoulda woulda is at its strongest. I suppose that is the price you pay when your favourite season panns out both at the end of a current year - and the beginning of the next. Sort of like, when your new years resolution (the same you've had for the past five years) has failed just by existing in the first place, because as much as you wish for its sucess - its past failure is still fresh on your mind.
Another sadness gives its presence as you reenter your home; and in the process of decorating for christmas, you stumble upon your favourite childhood vhs-tapes, and you wish your previous high could last forever. To this day, there is not a single moment that I do not wish I was like Ronia the Robbers daughter, being able to live duty free in the forest, being as close connected to nature as possible. And very rarely a day goes by without me thinking, even the tiniest bit on the danish movie "Ørnens øye" And how the medieval senery; dirty people, pigs and muck included - is just right up my alley. My point is; as winter brings forth the child stored away in your heart - is also brings about the sadness, come knowledge that you are not young anymore...
Of course at the bottom of all things, we are only human. And humans do what humans do best... we endure:)
And this is melancholy to me
- Seasons greetings^^
- Mood: Melancholy
- Location: Kolbotn - Norway
- Music: Björn Isfält - Vilda Skogssongen
Frost at Midnight
The poem "Fros at Midnight" was written by the man Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1798, as a part of Coleridge's "Conversation poems" (1795-1807)
These poems were works of reflection on different themes of life in a conversational tone. popular of such themes were for instance morality, nature and life itself - all very fundamental topics of the romanticism in general.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 - 1834) ws an English poet, critic and philosopher - who with the partnership of William Wordsworth contributed to the foundation of the romantic movement in England, and is probably most known for his poem "The Rime of the Ancient mariner"
Coleridge grew up in big city London, a background that had a big impact on his writing, especially the poem "Frost at midnight".
The speaker of the poem is believed to be Coleridge himself, where he contemplates the abiding themes of early romanticism; the effect of nature on the imagination, the relationhip between children and the natural world, the contrast between the "liberating" country setting and the city life - and the connection between adulthood and childhood through the adult memory. Frost at midnight also contains what is referred to as "blank verse" - typical for its period, and is a term used to decribe unhrymed lines metered in iambic pentameter.
At the same time, while the poem corresponds to the ruling principles of the romanticism, it also emphazises the difference between Coleridge and his fellow authors of said period. If we go back to William Wordsworth as an example; raised on the rustty countryside, saw his own childhood as a time where is connection to the natural world was at its greatest, and could therefore revisit his childhood memories to provoke his imagination. Coleridge on the other hand, seeing as he grew up in London confines in his poem that he "saw naught lovely but the stars and the sky" this alienation to the natural world shines through the poem in a slightly envious tone, because Coleridge can never feel the same automatic happines when reminiscing his own childhood.
Further on in the poem we see how this lingering alienation only increases his wish of his own child enjoying an "idyllic Wordsworthian upbringing" instead of being deprived of such a marvellous connection as he himself was.
(And is says here in the third stanza)
For I was reared
In the great city, pent'mid ckoisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and the start.
But thou my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds.
when expressing the central themes of the poem, "Frost at midnight" relies on a very personal idiom, where the reader follows the natural progression of the speakers contemplations. In that was the reader gets an impression of the mood and surroundings, which in this poem is late on a winter night, frost hanging from the trees - all of nature's voices encircling he speaker. Here Coleridge uses a type of language to immidiately draw readers intoo the scene. Upon hearing an owl, the speaker screams "hark!" as though he was surprised to hear it. The object surrounding the spekaker therefor become methaphors for the work of the mind, and of the imagination.
Prayers For Bobby
(Based on a true story)
When truth is to be told, there has very rarely in my short, yet surprisingly cynical life been a moment of total weakness from yours truly. Never had a break down from the sad and unexpected, or a break-through from overly sentimental notions of romance. Just an abyss of poisonous, yet expected dissapointment ravishing our lost souls. Welcome to Hollywood everyone. It says so on the entry-door.
Yet when i first saw Prayers For Bobby, i felt something i had long thought i was devoid of. It shattered my foundation to the ground, skin on skin- without skin, down to a bare boneless mass.
Yes i had a hard time believing that such a pleasantly poignant piece treated with that amount of heartfelt curiosity and respect, could ever come out of the american film industry.
An unexpected choice of (mostly) relatively unknown actors, a storyline that has you weeping and/or pulling your hear out for the larger part oh the movie, or ( if you are lucky) refraining to do so by no more than an inch. This film is one of the most honest, self-criticizing dramas to date...
Now comparison as a principle is usually a dangerous path, yet if one had to, Prayers for Bobby belong among the likes of popular 21st century french films. As poignantly displayed as 2008s Donne moi la maine, as heartfelt as Chansons d'amour and as curiously beautiful as Dans Paris and En Colo.
This is not one to miss!
- Author Unknown...
The two main streams of "British' Paganism are Wicca and Druidry. Although both traditions draw their inspiration from past ages, much of their contemporary practice has evolved very recently - from the eighteenth century for Druidry, from the 1940s onwards for Wicca. The eighteenth century saw the development of Druid ceremony, much of it articulated by Iolo Morganwg, and in the twentieth century the MacGregor-Reids and Ross Nichols gave further inspiration and form to Druid ceremony and thought, while Gerald Gardner proved the catalyst for the rebirth (or birth, depending on your opinion) of Wicca. Since Wicca and Druidry share so much in common, it is natural to wonder whether they were originally one and the same, only developing later in different directions. Gerald Gardner, in The Meaning of Witchcraft (1959) wrote "The great question is, were the witches and the Druids members of the same cult?.....Personally, I think they were not; the witch cult was the religion of the soil, as it were, and the Druids were the more aristocratic religion..." At a Pagan Federation conference and then later in The Druid Way (1993) I asked Gardner's question again, and quoted various authors' views on the subject.
Christina Oakley's article continues the debate, and her conclusion tallies with Gardner's: Wicca and Druidry have different histories. They certainly "feel" different, as Christina Oakley mentions, and I think our Paganism is all the richer for these two vital, distinct and rich traditions growing side by side. Many people, however, are now following both paths, combining them idiosyncratically to suit their own tastes and practises, in the time-honoured slightly anarchical way of modern Paganism. There is value in this, but also, I believe, a danger. The value lies in our being able to develop our own unique path. Paganism, Wicca, Druidry, Shamanism, the Earth Religions - all avoid the problems of the Revealed Religions, which so easily develop into personality cults and dogmatic systems. The eclecticism and anarchy of the former prevent this. And so a creative meeting of Wicca and Druidry is occurring, with some people feeling that the private focus of Wicca fulfils one need, while the more public focus of Druidry fulfils another.
Christina Oakley says 'At the heart of Wicca is the image of the God and Goddess joined in love as one'. Whilst variants of Wicca do not make the Great Rite central, she is speaking here of Traditional British Wicca, whose focus is on the act of union, just as Druidry's focus is on the results of that act: symbolised by the Divine Child, the Mabon, and expressed through the Arts and the Bardic tradition. Thus, the emphasis on the joining of male and female energy in Wicca seems perfectly balanced with the emphasis on the results of that joining in Druidry. So we can see that it is quite possible to follow both Wicca and Druidry, since each fulfils a different need and helps to express a different facet of the self. To return to Gerald Gardner's suggestion, we could say that now we can embrace both traditions because socially we are no longer so constrained, and the person of the soil and the person of culture both need feeding within us. Having said this, it is important to realise the limitations of this argument, since many Wiccans and Druids will quite rightly point to the completeness of their own tradition, which belies any necessity for combination with a complementary path. Even so, the mixing is undoubtedly happening. If you were to visit a non-aligned Pagan ceremony at a festival time, you would almost certainly find yourself participating in a ritual which draws its inspiration and form partly from Wicca and partly from Druidry. Ask Wiccans if they are Druids too, and a good deal will say they are, and vice versa. The question is, are we enriching our traditions or diluting them?
While some contemporary Pagans eclectically blend Wiccan and Druid practice, research is revealing more of the connections that existed in the seminal years of modern Druidry's and Wicca's development - the 1940's and 50's. The influence of the related movements of Woodcraft Chivalry and Naturism of the 20's and 30's, which could be seen as effectively Pagan movements, is only now being explored (see Ronald Hutton's article in Enchante Autumn 1993 and Steve Wilson's article in Aisling 8 (1995)). Both Gerald Gardner and Ross Nichols, founder of the Order of Bards Ovates & Druids, were influenced by these, and we know that Gardner was a member of the Ancient Druid Order (The Druid Way p.57). It has also been suggested that George Watson MacGregor-Reid, Chief of the Ancient Druid Order, was also a member of the famous New Forest coven in 1939 (W.E.Liddell The Pickingill Papers, Capall Bann 1994 ). From conversations with Ross Nichols, and from his writings, I believe that he was probably not an initiated Wiccan (although I cannot be certain of this), but I know that he was highly sympathetic to Wicca and had many Wiccan friends, including Justine Glass, author of Witchcraft, the Sixth Sense and Us (Neville Spearman 1965) and apparently Doreen Valiente. Gardner and Nichols were friends too, and as a result of their exchanges the eightfold Pagan festival cycle was born. (Or reborn, depending on your point of view. For a discussion of the history of this central feature of modern Pagan practice see Steve Wilson's article in Aisling 8 (1995) p.15 which is based partly on detailed research by Ronald Hutton for his forthcoming book on the history of modern paganism The Triumph of the Moon.) Following their discussions, Wiccans incorporated the Solstices and Equinoxes into their celebrations, and Druids incorporated the fire festivals into theirs. That is a tremendous example of cross-fertilisation between the two traditions, and in the last few years we have seen this happening in a wider, though less dramatic form.
I believe we can avoid a dilution or homogenization by understanding Druidry and Wicca as two discrete, separate entities, which nevertheless have much to offer each other. Some will want to work in both traditions, feeling that they complement and enrich each other. Others will prefer to root themselves firmly in just one tradition, sensing that it is complete in itself.
Korpiklaani and Arkona, two of my favourite bands origining from Finnland and Russia had an event together - and I went without hesitation. I knew from past experiences that Korpiklaani knew how to put on a good live show, and one of my comrads had seen Arkona on a previous occation - and confirmed my expectations for the night.
The evening started out pretty tame as most; warming up was a band from Illinois which name i never remembered. Something that in my experience would give most a pretty clear indication as to my opinion of them.
Next out was a was a pretty wacko band by the name of Polkadot Cadaver - music in which would more than anything remind you of any acid trip what so ever; outstanding even so, with a few well-koordinated jump movements throw intoo the pit. More than anything though, what stood out was how syncronized they all were. The guitarist and the bassist started dancing at the exact same times, the drummer would mimic the lyrics while banging round... and they gave me a free CD, so you kind of have to love them.
Arkona was next; and the entire performance could best be decribed as mindblowing. People were getting in the mood as soon as they were setting up and prepping, and when Masha came onstage; people went wild.And for good reasons! As mentioned I had yet to witness Akona live before, and it went beyond what I had imagined. Masha was alive and strong as usual, Boris played well and headbanged even better. A sucessfull night in my opinion.
Korpiklaani was the last one out; and I have to admit; even if they were the header - after such a strong performance by Akona I was usure if they would be able to live up to the expectations...
Of course I should have realised my worries were for naught. Korpiklaani came on stage, and like fire they immediately set the premesis: This is a party. The set list consister of some old classics, something new - and of course, all time favs like "Tequia, Vodka and Beer Beer".
As a whole, the night was unduobtfully crazy; no wonder when you have such lunatics as the infamous Korpiklaani partying with the audience.
At least I can be sure that this is a concert I will be able to live off for a long period of time =)
Untill the next one that is!...
I don't really like christmas - sure, when truth be told, I don't really mind it either,
I just cannot for the life of me see what the big deal is about...
Back home, you see - it's always the same: Mom works overtime; my little sister all grumpy and being a tit,
leaving my father and I to deal with the decorating. And well, when you leave something of that importance to a couple of cynical sarcasmfeeders with no sense of holiday spirit - you are doomed to fail which ever way you look at it.
The tree is up and done (really fugly looking too if i do say so myself) on the 23rd - and hopefully taken down as soon as possible.
Now I migh be wrong, but it seems to me like the presents are the true meaning of the holidays. Mind you, eeevery christmas chipper in this world will disagee, nut if you look away from the opinions of slightly elderly ladies - and really take a look at what christmas has become, it would seem I am right.
After all, nothing causes more stress than the christmas shopping; people making sure they have all they need for each and every member of their family and friends. So i have to ask myself, If it is the though that counts, wouldn't these people settle for a little less, with a little more consideration - instead of turning such a holiday intoo a shopping marathon, or worse; a gift competition?
All I know is that this christmas I will stick to my humble abode, eat good food and do what I do best - deal with it!
What does it actually mean to grow up?
Most people would say that you grow up the day you leave your inner child behind - and move on.
But if that is so, how can so many adults live their entire life in such a childish state of mind?
And better yet; if it is not in fact so; then exactly what is it that brings about this transition.
As a young child, I as many other children would set myself goals and expectations; anticipating the arrival of this moment. At first I thought it would be as I hit puberty; but as is the case more often than not; puberty came and went, and I still remained the same.
For that reason, I was sure it would happen during my first relationship… after all it takes commitment, dedication and patience to be that close emotionally to another person. But time went and came – and if anything I only felt less committed, with a faltered dedication than ever before.
At last I though it would be when I lost my virginity (to put it bluntly).. I was always a late bloomer in these kind of things, so it would only be natural if my lack of experience made me feel as childish as I did at the time… But my first times came, and went; and I did not feel any less incomplete.
Today I am wiser, more patient and independend; well on my way to adulthood. And I know now that my own process of growing up, is more than anything based on experiences - and what you make of them. When you can see past you own mistakes; try to improve yourself without loosing who you really are; then I believe you have come far.
- Greetings from Miami Beach
I have always liked winter.
Not necesarraly the cold, freezing, or muddy puddles of dirty snow that came with it;
but growing up in Norway, winter only made me appreciate the hotness of summer.
Now, so far from home; during december of all times, I can not help buss miss the coldness.
Living here, in Florida - the hotness is everlasting, overbearing; consuming you whole
untill suddenly you have become that sweaty pile off mudd you so desperately depise.
We all know that is no fun.
I will not say my experiences here have dissapointing so far; quite on the contorary...
I guess that's what happens when you have low expectations, but every so often even I miss home.
The actual smell of trees; high mountains looking over the ocean - neverending water...
Ironic really, when you think of it; because I was never one to explore nature.
In a five month's time I will be home - and it will probably only be a matter of time before I am sick of it,
but for now, anyway - I will enjoy the view:)
"The Dark Gaze of Fashion"
Peter J. Amdam
In the year 1863, Charles Baudelaire writes in his seminal essay "The Painter of Modern Life" that "By 'modernity' I mean the ephimeral, the fugitive, the contingent, the half of art whose other half is the eternal and the emutable".
it would be, for us today, as it was for Baudelaire then, an easy feet to connect, or even replace, the word 'modernity'
with 'fashion'. Fashion as the ephimeral, fugitive, contingent aspect of a modernity that is in constant conflict with itself. A fashion embracing the speed and virulence of its own ruptuous changes, its turns and returns, its currencies and recurrencies, its mystifications and demystifications. its love affair with its own lustorous, smooth, attractive, fast and magical surfaces; its desire to transgress that very same notion of surfaces, to penetrate, to go beneath or beyond, to anchor itself somewhere below that very surface: the surface of the now, the surface of the new. the preverse antithetical desire of fashion to be "anti" fashion. the ever returning imagery of skeletons on the runways, the proliferation of images of death and dying.
Rei Kawakubos's garments emulating the collapse and cancerous growth of internal organs, the infamous and deeply eerie Comme Des Garcons "Lumps and Bumps" collection of spring-summer 97. or the same Kawakubo's ferocious attacks on the fabrics with scissors, literally tearing open the skin of fashion.
Martin Margiela´s exposure of threads, stitches, seems and laborious sweing techniques- stripping bare the surface of fashion, forcing it inside out. As it this panting, whispering, screaming, aappartional creature we sometimes refer to as fashion, as if the new and the now, as modernity and postmodernity, is folding its terminal condition back onto itself. Every season flags a state of revolution. When life, to borrow Hegel's phrase "endures death and maintains itself in it"...Breath. take two seconds to consider: Fashion's close attention to consumption and the destructive aspect so closely interwined with the act of consumption. it thrives on the limitidness of the limited edition. Poder: Proto-deathcore band Septic Death's first twelv-inch recording from 1984, graced by singer
Pushead's beautiful drawing of a bikini-clad model, her face a state f disfiguration. Title: "Need so much attention." It sold out fast, and its relative rarity made it, of course, even more sought after. Following its underground sucess, it was repackaged, reissued and made more widely available to an audience already contitioned, through an inverted libidinal economy. to demand death, Septic Death Re-titeled: "Now That I Got Your Attention: What Do I Do With It?" The aleatory and voiding nature of the performating calls for the attention so closely associated with fashion, without regards to fashion's possible ethicity. Beyond good and evil. It is no coincidence that, for Oscr Wilde, black was the supreme colour of modernity.
when the band Venom coined the phrase "black metal," it was a suppsedly stylistic act of hyperbolde posture. At the same time it invoked a certain semantic slippage: from "rock" to "hard rock" to "heavy metal" and then to "black metal." As geological cycle, the site of rock music, site of identity producuction and first stage of a post-Fordist economy-fueled leisure, metamorphosed from geological language to industrial alloy, then into an all consuming black hole... The ultimate metal of modernity. And by synecdoche: Fashion.
The now all to familiar story: the transubstantation of Venom's black metal into a northern, concrete, somber, serious reality. The reach beyond the figural and onto the actual, the clls for a new and , at the same time, pre-romantic heroism. A dark heroism, metal's own disconsolate experience of the ephermal, the fugitive, and the contingent runs paralell with that of fashion. the longng for a solid anchoring, for solid ground, and a return of the fled gods of the pre-Christian era. in other words; "The half of art whose other half is the eternal and the immutable." The extreme speed and flickering of metropolian fashion life, of speed metal. Or the droning ephemeral as material rythm, murmured cadence.
The disturbing double bind of a true metal head and a fashionista: the need to communicate roots, duration-durée and the imperative of the new. the 'now' does not exsist, neither does the 'new' - it dies the very moment it arrives. As Walter Benjamin observed in the 1930s: "For people as they are now, there is only one radical novelty - and always the same one: death."
Altered to present time.
Sort Enke came to this world 20 glorious years ago – per today anyway, and when she came, she came with a bang. After brutally murdering her twin brother inside her mothers’ womb, she quickly achieved her family’s affection, being the first child and grandchild; the heir to the throne of wickedness.
Coming from a long lineage of lunatics, in which malice was heavily brewing beneath the surface, it was not long until she gained command of the other youngsters in the neighbourhood.
Her most beloved friends were the witch from Snow- white, and the invisible man, both taking shelter in her basement, drinking the fine stash of coloured liquid from her fathers’ bar.
When S.E was six, she was sent to a brat camp for discipline, as her fragile parents were too tired of dealing with her. The other children did not like her wild nature very much, and took to mock her at every chance they got. This situation did not improve much over the years; especially not when the Wicked Witch from the west took over control of bratcamp.
Sort Enke was very, very angry. Though, noticed with, great desperation, that throwing chairs and writing spells, would not suffice. Instead, with as great stealth as she could possibly muster, she exiled herself to the forests, planning her poisonous revenge. It was said later, that she did not separate friend from foe, as a friend today, may still turn on you tomorrow. After all; the hearts of men are easily corrupted.
During this time, Sort Enke disguised her evil plans, by joining a marching band of instrumentalist; all misfits to the brat camps’ more sizeable group of residents. She gained knowledge of both sound and system, became a part of a much better society; and received, as an extra benefit – much needed spare time.
At her 8 years of age, her breeders hatched another egg, and she was no longer a one-man party. Her infant sister, a spitting image of her mother’s anger, had come swiftly, cunningly, and with no prevention. There was no stopping this one from disturbing the peace and the quiet, though lord knows people tried. With her sisters’ arrival, Sort Enke gained newfound knowledge of shared affection. It should have bothered her more, she supposed; but quickly realised - again, with much grieve, that not even her frozen heart stood any chance against this bundle of charms.
Round the time of her 13th birthday, Sort Enke was once again faced with changes. As older age had approached her, it was protocol for her – and her peers to proceed to another, more advanced bratcamp. Here the witches and warlords were even more cunning. They flew like snakes across the floor, always watching; always listening; always looking for trouble... There were still a few lambs in the pack, though – and Sort Enke took an extra liking to them.
With new environments came new people; and S.E was once again queen of her own domain. She was no longer an object of laughter and ridicule, but instead a creature most people more or less took a liking too. This suited her just perfectly, and she could finally focus more on her evil plans to destroy the world.
However, as time grew, she realised no wicked witch would do any good without formal attire. For that reason she came in contact with a fitting tailor, one who though her everything she had to know about the subject. She became black as night, moving swiftly and sturdy, like the queen she was. It gave her a new sense of fulfilment; this new appearance, and she finally felt like she had found herself. Of course, she had to kill a few copycats along the way, but that sort of thing came with the territory.
When she turned 16 – much had changed in Sort Enke. She was still as wicked as she had always been, but newfound courage allowed her to no longer be in hiding. She stood up for herself and her supporters, spent time with folk as cruel as her, and had now a giant herd of people she could control. Her powers had grown tremendously - Her parents no longer hatched thanks to her; she did not need any further distraction - and she had finally learned how to send things flying through the wall, thanks to her little sisters’ assistance.
- Brat High, a fond time for Sort Enke. Not only did she get hold of a handful of new foes to play with, but she actually had more fun doing it. She got a sweet taste of mortality, not only through her brat schedule – but through her artistic integrity... or should we say “un-tegrity”
She was often off on Witch trials, which made her see red, but it was nothing a little progressive fatalism couldn’t cope with.
Now she is 20, living on the bare fruit of life, killing and peeling off skin as she goes. She will not sleep; will not eat – until she has reached her final goal... World dominion!
Blasphemy, they spat – said; Heathens’ you hatch.
For your lips do not form, the name of our lord, who beat yours by the sword – and had you beheaded like nothing more.
Look at your past, you grubby hag.
Tell me the truth, do you not see the nute, over there by that mute – who was hung like nothing but a whore.
Yes, history has spoken, so call it a token.
Of our lord’s goodwill, decorated in frill, up there by that hill – where your kind is buried beneath the floor.
Blasphemy, they spat – said; Heathens’ you hatch. Tis’ what we do, with scum like you, without caring who – so as to rid the world of such venom and gore.
Yes we have it in pen, so you won’t come again. For my lips do not form the name of your lord, who ran from his sword – and had mine beheaded; such a cowardly score.